


Jump the Picket Fence

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [11]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Airplane Crashes, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Bruce Banner Hulks Out, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon-Typical Violence, Children, Cliffhangers, Depression, Disasters, Drama, End of the World, Family, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Mpreg, Mystery, Not Really Character Death, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Mpreg, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Romance, Series, Steve Rogers Feels, Suicide Attempt, Survival Horror, Thriller, Trauma, the simple life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: An attack of unfathomable magnitude has left the world in chaos. No line of communication is safe, no person is trustworthy. Planes are falling from the sky, cars are crashing, emergency services can't be reached. The Avengers recognize the same symptoms they saw in North Korea, but the scope of this disaster is now beyond anything they can control.Steve and Bucky welcomed their second child only sixteen hours ago, but when the Facility where they've built their life collapses after an attack from within, Steve doesn't have time to go back for what's important - he has to move on with what he still has. For the first time in his life, Steve Rogers may be forced to acknowledge that this time, running away might be the best thing he can do.





	1. The Boy With No Shoes

The cloud of superheated dust and black smoke expands so quickly that Ruth instantly knows that running will do her no good. She holds her breath, lungs paralyzed by the sudden hot wind overhead, and hides her face in the sleeve of her jacket until she can fumble the zipper of her vest open and use the collar to protect her nose and mouth. Even with her eyes shut, she knows the sunlight is no longer penetrating the cloud around her. The world is dark.

Her brain short-circuits for a few slow seconds, telling her that she’s going to die, envisioning tons of debris falling silently out of the pitch black mass engulfing her, burying her beneath them. When death doesn’t come, she begins to walk forward blindly. Her ability to think logically is wounded, but not crippled: the cloud cannot go on forever. There’s air and wind around her. It will pass. She can find her way out of it.

She walks with no real sense of her direction. The snow makes it hard to tell if she’s moving uphill or downhill, on grass or on pavement, slow or fast. She wants to shout for her dad, to hope that his voice will break through the blind and airless dark like a miracle; she wants to reach out and grasp a friendly hand, to find him and Steve huddled safely together; she wants Vision to come and find her, to reprimand her for disobeying his explicit instructions.

She should never have left Argentina. She should have stayed at home and locked her doors, put the old files in the nearest dumpster, never told her dad or Steve about them, never thought about them again.

But now, she’s here, at the heart of the world that surrounds the Avengers — one in which even her dad could barely survive; a world where buildings fall and bomb blasts shudder through the air and make ripples in her blood; full of low, mournful sirens and rife with fear. Their world was the edge of a precipice — they were content to live out their lives in a house built at the mouth of a smoking volcano. She couldn’t ask her dad to leave it behind, but she had never wanted to join him there. And yet, she had left her home on an impulse, and immediately, she had found herself entangled in the next disaster, the next frantic call that she would make to her dad’s cell when the headlines reached her, when he’d laugh it all off, sounding tired, and tell her not to worry because he and Steve could handle it.

She never liked to imagine the world he lived in. The things he’d seen, that he saw every day. Too close to the warzones that followed at the heels of her own childhood memories. She shouldn’t have come.

Her feet stumble, rolling and sliding on broken pieces of concrete. She must be moving toward the Facility, but she can't tell if the siren has grown louder or softer, whether it's been stifled by the debris in the air, or if her hearing itself has been dampened by the blasting demolition around her, nor can she determine if the dust is thinning, or if her eyes are adjusting, or if her vision is whiting out.

Finally, she raises her eyes skyward, and finds the dim pinprick of light against the filthy brown air and knows it must be the weak winter sun, riding low in the west. It tells her nothing about her current location, but it does give her the barest modicum of comfort. The world hasn’t ended.

Then, as she tracks painstakingly forward in the absence of any other course of action, a body begins to materialize just ahead of her. It’s wandering in a daze, just like she is, sluggish and tired with shock, hands outstretched to grope through the air. It’s a child — and Ruth’s mind bursts into wakefulness with incredible efficiency, and she hears her dad’s voice in her ear, as clearly as if the phone was cradled against her shoulder, _Yeah, Lincoln’s fine — I wish there were some other kids around here for him to play with, but—_

Ruth cuts the rest of the memory short. She doesn’t need it right now. That has to be him — there are no other children here.

“Lincoln,” she says, surprised when her voice, which she had willed to shout, only whispers tremulously. “Lincoln!” she calls, with all her strength. The figure stops moving, and she pushes her feet through the snow as fast as her tingling legs will allow, taking off her vest as she reaches him and throwing it protectively over his head to keep some of the dust out of his lungs. “Don’t worry, don’t be scared,” she babbles, sounding too afraid to tell him that in good conscience. “Come on — come on, let’s go.” She grasps both of the boy’s hands and helps him wrap them around her neck. He clings to her — solid and bracing and more tangible than the shifting world around her, and suddenly she can think again. She can _move_ again.

She glances behind her — the air is dark brown. She looks ahead — lighter. She runs toward the light, holding her breath, now aware that they’re ascending a steep hill, climbing toward its crest and better air. When they reach the top, a strong wind blows over them like the hand of God, and she narrows her eyes to keep out the stinging grit, but once the gust passes over the hillside, she can see.

Down on the lower ground that she’d fled, the ruins of the Facility are still blanketed in the cloud that had engulfed her. Beyond that, she can see her car by the main entrance, door open, still running. The Facility’s staff has evacuated to a safer distance, some on their phones, some huddled on the ground, some shouting into radios, some carrying others while stretchers come.

The boy in her arms is still and heavy against her — silent, dead weight. If this is Lincoln — and it must be — he’s barely recognizable. The grey and white concrete dust has made a thick coat over his skin, clothes, and hair; that uniform color only deviates in the blue of his staring eyes, gazing out of his masked face, the splatter of dark, congealing red on his forehead and right elbow, and his bare feet — washed clean by the snow he’d wandered through, red with the cold.

Ruth is too panicked to cry, though she almost expects to feel tears in her eyes as she sets Lincoln down on the ground so she can look him over, parting his loose blonde curls with shaking fingers to gauge the severity of his head wound. The cut is small, but the bump forming underneath it isn’t. “You’re alright — you’re alright—” she chants mindlessly, and picks up two handfuls of snow from the ground, clutching it between her palms until it begins to melt, and then wiping Lincoln’s face clean, rinsing the dirt out of his empty, hooded eyes. For a while, he doesn’t react at all, but when she makes a second pass over his face with her cold, snow-dampened hands, he pushes her away.

“Don’t!”

“I’m — I’m sorry!” she stutters. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t know you!”

She’s not thinking straight. Otherwise, she would lie on her dad’s behalf. But perhaps, in her state of fear and desperation, she makes the right choice. Lincoln doesn’t need a stranger right now, he needs his family, and whatever distance and circumstance lies between them, she’s part of his family. She thinks of the rubble and dust behind her, and all the unanswered phone calls, and realizes with a sudden pervasive terror and profound heartbreak that she may be all the family he has left. “Lincoln — it’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart,” she promises as gently as she can, catching his hands in hers as he tries clumsily to swat her away. “It’s okay — I’m — I’m your sister, Lincoln — I’m going to keep you safe. I’m your sister.”

His hands go limp in hers and he stares her down. Finally, his eyes have a little life, a little thought in them, instead of only glassy, deadened shock. His mouth hangs open, brow furrowing. Maybe she should have lied. Maybe she’s made everything worse. Lincoln’s breath quickens as he processes the information, and suddenly his slack face twists with disbelief.

_“Brooklyn?”_

She’s so glad to hear him say something above a horror-struck whisper that she pulls him into a hug. That’s the head injury and the shock talking — after all, his home has just collapsed around him — time travel is just as likely, to a boy his age. “No — no, sweetheart, I’m Ruth. I’m your older sister — we haven’t met, but I’ve seen lots of — lots of pictures of you. Okay — okay, let’s get you down to the medics, let’s see if we can find dad—” And she starts to lift him up again, ready to carry him back through the settling, swirling dust to the main entrance.

Down below, at their destination, shots ring out. A collective cry rends the air.

Ruth screams, startled, and drops to the ground with Lincoln beneath her, clutching him protectively to her chest. More gunshots.

“Stay down—” she instructs breathlessly, and raises her head to survey the chaos in front of the building. Those who can run are running. Others are fighting. There’s a body on the ground.

She can’t take him there — _oh God oh God what’s happening? What is happening this makes no sense this makes no sense —_ She feels as if the world is splitting at the seams.

“No — we can’t go that way!” Lincoln grunts, struggling out from underneath her and stumbling to his feet.

“I know — I’m going to get you out of here—”

“No — Dad is back there—” he pants, trudging toward the bones of the north wing.

“Were you with your dad when this happened?”

“Yeah, he’s back there with my baby sister — he’s back there—”

“Lincoln — Lincoln, stop, slow down — did they make it out?”

“I don’t know!” he calls back angrily, breaking into a run. “We gotta look for them! We gotta find them—”

“Wait!” she shouts, catching him by the arm. God, half of the building is nothing but rubble. They can’t have made it. If Lincoln goes searching through that debris, he won’t find them, or worse, he will. “Where was your papa? Was he with you?”

“He—” Lincoln stops instantly, words sticking in his throat. “He—”

“Lincoln — it’s okay. Just breathe, sweetheart,” she begs, sweeping him up into her arms again.

“He didn’t come with us — he didn’t — he didn’t come with us — he wouldn’t come, he said no, he stayed inside. I want to call him. I want to call him on the phone, please. I think he’s still in there, please, I want to go look for everybody—”

Lincoln is frantic now, and Ruth finds herself at a loss. There’s nothing she can do to fix this, no right course of action, no knowable answer. Lincoln has to stay with her: he has no one else. She can’t go toward the entrance, she doesn’t know how to contact Vision: _she_ has no one else. They can risk finding Steve and Bucky, or they can risk not finding Steve and Bucky in time.

“Come on, let me carry you.”

“No — we’ve got to hurry—”

“We’ll hurry. But your feet will get cold,” she reminds him insistently, sweeping him back into her arms. They’ll have to search quickly — it’s getting darker by the minute, and if Steve or her dad or Brooklyn are alive, then they may not have much time.

Against her fearful instincts, Ruth turns her back to the commotion by the entrance. She hurries back down the hill with Lincoln in her arms, staying low to the ground, always keeping her body between the shouts and cries and him, cradling the back of his head to press it into her shoulder. When they reach the place where the the north wall had stood minutes before, she can feel him breathing against her, fast and shallow.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he replies unsteadily. “I don’t know if — maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come back. I don’t want it — what if it falls again?” he cries. “I think maybe we shouldn’t be here — I wanna go—”

“It can’t fall again, sweetheart. I’m going to keep you safe, understand me?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay — I’m going to look for your dad,” she tells him, picking her way through the debris and passing through an eerie archway of damaged beams. There’s very little ground within the skeleton of the Facility that’s safe to walk on — parts of the seven levels above the ground floor have fallen all the way through, stacking one on top of the next like messy piles of books. Further back, the collapse is more complete — a shadowy dead end, spanning the width of the building, lit only by the occasional spark of a live wire.

“It’s bad in here,” Lincoln whispers, pressing closer.

“Steve!” she calls out. Her voice is thrown sharply back at them by the forest of naked beams. “Dad! Bucky!” she shouts. The siren drones on at the south end of the Facility, but the wreckage around her remains deathly silent. “Steve!” There’s no answer.

She walks a few feet. Calls out again. Nothing. Stumbles, presses forward into the shadows of the crumbling upper floors, covering Lincoln’s head, until a bank of fluorescent lights tumbles from the broken ceiling above them and the little body she’s carrying squeezes tight against her, terrified. She doesn’t move any deeper into the building after that. She makes her way back toward the pale, uneven windows of daylight, calling for Steve and her dad, over and over again, never receiving an answer, until Lincoln is shaking against her, sobbing. She shouldn’t have brought him.

She couldn’t have left him.

“Lincoln, honey,” she says, in the calmest voice she can muster. “Were you with your dad, when the building fell down?”

He collects himself enough to choke out, “Yeah — I think I was with him — when it—” and then the words start falling out, one after another, senseless. “I was with him. And Brooklyn. She’s my baby sister — I — we gotta find her, she’s really little, she might get hurt—”

“I know, I know. We’re looking. Do you remember where you were?”

Lincoln dares to raise his head for a moment, but his muscles go rigidly still as soon as he sees the building’s dark shell around them, and he buries his face against her shoulder again. “None of this looks right! This isn’t right—”

“Do you remember anything, Lincoln? Maybe something from right before the building fell?”

“I—” he shouts, ready with another frustrated denial, until he says, “Stairs.”

“Okay! Okay, that’s good — so you guys didn’t fall from up high?”

“No, we climbed down the stairs. My — my shirt got stuck.”

“On what?”

“Dad was — he was carrying me. Under his arm. And my shirt got stuck and something scratched me on the belly.”

Ruth can see a little splotch of red on his torn shirt.

“On — on the door. And then I fell. And Dad — he — he grabbed my arm and pulled on me really hard.”

“Do you remember where you went after that?”

“It was…” Lincoln pauses, wracks his memory. “Just very cold. And then it got hot so I was scared to move. And then I was in the dust.”

Ruth weaves through the cavernous opening at the building’s center, out toward the snow that’s now blanketed in fine, brown dirt, jagged concrete, and twisted metal. The pieces of the structure that had fallen like trees across the ground are collecting a thin dusting of snow now. She finds a path through them, thankful to be back in the open, where there’s better air, where the scent of smoke and electricity isn’t so thick.

Desperate beyond words, she looks to the edge of the building on her left and the few beams that still stand there, marking the perimeter, and then she slowly sweeps her gaze across the grounds, hoping to see any sign of movement, until she reaches the less-discernible edge of the same wall at her right. Something draws her eyes back to the grounds.

A little line, winding toward the trees. Bare feet, dragging through the snow.

Hoisting Lincoln up higher on her hip, she hurries toward the closest part of the line she can see, and tracks it backward as it winds through the maze of rubble. It leads her nowhere promising: a mound of concrete, under a single, tilted steel beam.

But just beneath her feet, there’s a deeper depression in the snow — the place where a little body had landed, rolled, slid. Beside it, fading handprints, where he’d struggled to his feet.

She sets Lincoln down in the print his own body had left behind, taking another quick glance at the cut on his forehead as he continues to cry. She wants to run toward the trees with him — find some safe, windless crevice to hide in, to rock him in her lap until he feels even just a little better, in spite of her own ignorance about the needs of children and how to nurture them, how to comfort them when they’re scared. The only example she can imitate is her father’s — God, she wishes he was here with her. He had always kept her safe, he could find his way out of a warzone, and he always knew where to run.

But the best she can do for Lincoln is find the ones who _can_ care for him. Doing so may have passed outside of the realm of possibility fifteen minutes ago, but for his sake, she’ll keep trying.

“Steve!” she shouts, louder than before, all the fear that had weakened her voice turning to bolstering, blind determination.

The grounds are quiet.

Almost.

“Lincoln—” she hisses sharply, with no time to care how harsh she sounds. “Lincoln, stop crying.”

Luckily, Lincoln is still more afraid than heartbroken. A command spoken so urgently is still enough to startle him into silence.

There’s another sound. Another cry. Shrill, weak. Too close to have carried from the main building, but still almost too soft to hear.

Lincoln’s whisper momentarily drowns out the faint noise. “That’s my baby sister.” And then, his eyes widen and his body vibrates with nervous energy. “That’s my baby sister!” he yells, elated and mindlessly scared, filled with hope and gut-wrenching panic.

Lincoln runs toward the sound first, but Ruth runs faster. They both follow the cries to the pile of concrete at the building’s corner — which Ruth now guesses must be the collapsed stairwell — and circle it feverishly, listening for an opening where the noise might be louder. Lincoln finds one: one small, solid slab of wall, propped up on a chunk of concrete no bigger than a football, which has left a narrow, triangular gap against the wet ground.

“Help me!” he begs, reaching for the largest piece of debris and trying in vain to lift it away. “Help me get her out—”

“Lincoln, no!” Ruth bites out urgently. Lincoln’s hands still and he jumps back as if he’s been burned. “No! _Do not_ move anything, it could collapse!”

“I’m sorry! I — I didn’t—”

“It’s okay — I — stay here. Stay right here, don’t move. I’m going to find someone—”

“You can’t go back there! Someone had a gun! I saw it!”

“Lincoln, we’ve got to—”

“But — look, I can fit!”

“No, no, sweetheart, we’ve got to get help,” Ruth pleads uselessly. Lincoln has already dropped down onto his belly in the snow and dragged himself, arm over arm, underneath the frighteningly narrow gap. All she can do is grab his legs to stop him going any further. “Lincoln, I don’t know what I’ll do if you get stuck, too, sweetheart, come back—”

“No! I can do it!”

Ruth holds her breath. And then lets go of his legs.

“Keep talking to me, Lincoln!”

“There’s — I can feel more room in here, but it’s just a little box! I can’t get deeper — it gets — too little for me to fit—”

“Come back—”

“Dad!”

“Steve? Lincoln — Lincoln, can you see your dad?”

“No — I can hear him!”

Ruth can’t even catch the rustle of Lincoln moving anymore. He must have found a way to crawl further in.

“I see them!”

Ruth’s heart pounds, aching with pressure, feeling like it’s going to burst inside her chest. She lies down on the ground beside the opening, but she can’t even see Lincoln’s feet. “Can you make it back out?”

“I — I don’t know — there’s — I can reach underneath—” And then, for a few nauseatingly tense minutes, there’s only the sound of Lincoln’s strained voice, shouting wordlessly, hoarse and winded from struggling to move.

Ruth slides her arm into the gap, reaching in as far as she can, groping for anything but snow and rock and finding nothing. “Lincoln, come on, sweetheart, you can do it,” she prays aloud, not knowing whether he’ll hear it or not.

Finally, the melting snow near her hand shifts minutely. She stretches further, wishing she could tear her shoulder out of its socket if it meant feeling him.

His cold foot kicks out, and lands right in her palm.

“Pull me out!” he cries urgently, and she does, only going as slowly as she does for safety’s sake, forcing herself to be careful, not to disturb the precariously balanced structure or twist his body too sharply around the tight bend in the passageway he’s crawled through. She scrambles backward, pulling him after her until his head is clear of the rubble. Instantly, he struggles to his knees, face still pressed to the icy, wet ground, arms disappearing into the small opening again and—

And he _did_ it.

He got Brooklyn.

“Oh my God,” Ruth says numbly. She crawls over to them, hands working frantically as she touches each of the baby’s limbs, brushes her fingers over her head looking for abrasions, cleans the dust away from her eyes and nose and mouth, and frees her from the blanket that’s soaked through with filthy, icy water.

Brooklyn had been quiet as Lincoln had pulled her free — _terrifyingly quiet —_ but now, she’s starting to cry a little louder, punctuating her wails with little coughs as she clears the dust from her throat. Ruth and Lincoln move automatically — Ruth practically tears off her body-warm coat and sets it in Lincoln’s outstretched arms, and they put Brooklyn in it and wrap her up. Lincoln clutches her close to his chest — he’s crying harder than she is.

“Dad’s still — he’s still in there — he can’t fit—”

“Hold on to her — keep your hand against her head, she can’t hold it up by herself — good, that’s good. Okay, stay back,” Ruth pants.

She doesn’t think she can do this. And if she _can_ do it, there’s a good chance that something will go wrong, that something will shift, and Steve will be crushed. But Lincoln had been brave. She can be brave, too.

She stands up, staring at the ruins of the stairwell. The bottom is all smaller pieces: the remainder of a demolished exterior wall. It’s the same on top. Somewhere in the middle, trapped on a precarious angle and impossibly balanced between all the jagged rock and metal, there’s a slab of smoother interior wall, cracked in a few places and not guaranteed to withstand any sudden movements. It could crush Steve easily if it breaks. It could crush her, too.

It’s a huge risk, but she’s going to take it.

She searches out two footholds in the rock, wedges her fingers under the rock, and pushes.

And nothing happens.

_Of course I can’t do it. I’m not like them._

And then, a louder voice — a _real_ voice — shouts, “Try again!”

Ruth takes one quick look over her shoulder, at Lincoln standing in the ankle-deep snow, barefoot, holding his newborn sister, brow knitted with determination and eyes filled with an unshakeable belief that his dad will make it out of the crumbled stairwell alive and unharmed.

Ruth climbs a little higher. Bends low. Deep breath. _Lifts._

And once it’s budged an inch, the debris begins to slide off the top, tumbling away as rock grinds against rock, and just above the ringing in her ears, she can hear Steve’s voice, groaning like a wounded animal beneath the stone.

Underneath the slab, she can see down to the ground. She braces her hands against the face of the wall and climbs, putting one foot mindlessly in front of the other and not daring to think about what will happen if the rubble gives way beneath her. Her mind and body are bent solely on the task of lifting, moving. There still another more jagged, broken section of wall between her and Steve, and just beneath it, she can see the top edge of the door they must have escaped from.

Another deep breath, and she jumps down off the edge of the debris, holding the weight of the slab over her head. Nearly slips, knees and elbows nearly buckle, but she stays upright. She can’t do this much longer. She starts walking her hands forward across the concrete, pushing it higher as physics dictates that it grows heavier, and at last, the rocks trapping Steve are no longer pinned beneath its weight. They shift briefly as he struggles to push them away and break free, but he can’t do it.

Ruth digs her heels into the ground. Presses upward. Splays her fingers. If her dad is dead, if this stupid, irresponsible, recklessly brave and violent life he leads has finally killed him, then she hopes he can see her now, wherever he is.

And with that final thought, she drops one hand away from the stone. Keeps the wall above her head with the other. Her feet sink into the soft ground, but she reaches down, finds the edge of the rock pinning Steve into the dirt, and together, they lift it away.

She doesn’t see him stand up — she’s shut her eyes and clenched her teeth, no longer breathing, swiftly approaching the limits of her physical strength and losing her footing fast. She barely hears Steve’s ragged voice beside her, a guttural shout, and the wall becomes suddenly weightless in her hand, slips away from her, and tips back toward the building, where it breaks apart like a puzzle, the impact reverberating through the building’s shell.

Steve doesn’t take a second look at her. He says nothing — just drags himself toward the edge of the rocks that had trapped him and his daughter for the last twenty immeasurable minutes and clambers desperately up the side and over. Ruth only takes a moment to look down as she marvels at her own hands, surprised and delighted to find them dirty but unbroken, still usable after moving a wall a meter thick. Just as she’s processing the caliber of her own physical strength, her eyes wander to the ground beneath her, and in an instant, she finds herself once again humbled and daunted.

There’s clear evidence in the dirt of the course of events immediately following the collapse. Steve must have thrown Lincoln out from under the wall that had caught him, and his son had landed just beyond the worst of the collapse almost fifteen feet away. Here, where Ruth is standing, the remainder of the story is unearthed: the deep imprints left in the mud left by Steve’s hands and knees, and at the center of those four sunken holes, a little oval of melted snow, where Brooklyn must have lain, safe from the ton of debris held aloft on her father’s back as he had waited for help to come.

Ruth doesn’t need more than a second to take in the magnitude of it all — it’s starkly apparent. She follows Steve out of the wreckage just in time to see him stumble right to his son and daughter and, as if his body has already forgotten the past twenty minutes of hell, he snatches Lincoln up in one arm, steadying Brooklyn with the other, and he drowns out Lincoln’s disbelieving shout of, “Dad!” with his own voice and a cry so gut-wrenching that Ruth feels like she’s had the wind knocked out of her.

He sits down hard on the ground with both of them cradled close and cries and _cries,_ pressing kisses to their cheeks and heads between each crippling sob until Ruth wonders if she could even bear the weight of loving a child as much as Steve loves Brooklyn and Lincoln.

A distant, low drone catches Ruth’s attention, and she tears her eyes away from Steve and the kids. She watches, numb with helplessness and reduced to dispassionate observation as a plane flies low, descending from the clouds on the other side of the lake a mile away, and tilts drunkenly to one side just before shuddering under the force of too much wind resistance, and makes its oddly gentle descent across the near horizon. She sees the pitch-black smoke, flecked with hot red and orange fire, rise like a bubble out of the trees a few seconds before she hears the percussive blast roll over the earth like thunder in the ground.

“God,” she says, hearing with some confusion how steady her own voice sounds, in the face of a world that may very well be shuddering to an end all around her. “What is this?”

Steve must have seen it — he’s facing the treeline, but his mind is too saturated with adrenaline to process it. He doesn’t offer any conjectures, just reaches out to her and pulls her down to the ground beside him, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and holding her tightly against him, no differently than he’s holding on to Lincoln, choking out, “Thank you, thank you,” over and over, until he’s too breathless to continue. “Where — where is—”

“I don’t know — I don’t know where dad is,” she forces herself to answer.

The stricken expression on Steve’s face tells her she could have put a bullet in his chest and hurt him less gravely. Finally, he locks eyes with her, and then shifts his gaze suddenly back toward the north wing. There’s not much left. Ruth is painfully aware that he’s looking at more than a collapsed building: that was his home. He’d raised his son there. That was the last place he’d seen Bucky.

“Steve — we have to look for him — please, I’m—”

In the momentary silence as Ruth runs out of meaningful words, the sounds of chaos on the other side of the building, the sounds of a _fight,_ are once again thrown into sharp relief. Steve covers Lincoln’s head with a protective hand, clutching him closer. His face twists with agony, and then relaxes into an expressionless stare as he evaluates the state of the building. Ruth thinks he must not see much promise in its ruins. Not enough to risk their proximity to whatever’s happening on the other side of the grounds.

“We can’t stay,” he says, as if he’s only realizing the truth and gravity of his statement in the moment the words leave his mouth. “I — I think I know what this is — we’ve gotta get them somewhere safe — somewhere — _isolated,_ we can’t—”

Ruth wishes she could stop herself — Steve doesn’t need to see her cry, not now. But Bucky is her dad. Bucky’s been through enough, been left behind too many times, by too many people to be left behind now. He doesn’t deserve to be left behind, not by her. Not again. This is Steve’s loss more than it’s hers. Lincoln’s loss more than Steve’s. She shouldn’t let herself cry.

Steve’s face hardens as he looks back toward the burning remains of the Facility. He seems to set his jaw. He stands up without ever relinquishing his hold on Lincoln and Brooklyn, who have fallen silent against him, dazed with shock. “He set up a bunker by the lake. I’m taking them there,” he informs her emptily, then, without another word, he turns on his heel and heads for the treeline. Ruth follows behind him at a distance, struggling to walk away from the Facility that wasn’t even her home.

But Steve doesn’t look back again. Not even once.


	2. The Bunker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, Lincoln, Brooklyn, and Ruth make their way toward a few minutes of safety.

Steve watches his own thoughts like an observer. A helpless bystander to a catastrophic event. He’s losing his mind, and there’s not much he can do to slow the dissolution of his sanity. He watches like a powerless sentinel, like he’d watched his mother in her bed from his perch on a hard wooden chair—too weak to cough, too sick to breathe, too thin to eat, too good to give up and die.

If he hadn’t failed in North Korea, if he had just done his fucking job a little better, this wouldn’t have happened. This is his own negligence, his own oversight coming back for blood. This is his failure. He wishes he’d never taken the mission at all. His place was with his family now and to divide his attention between protecting the world and caring for his family had only brought him _here:_ the world is on fire; his family is a casualty. He’d held two precious, heavy things in his hands, and he had dropped them both and let them shatter, all because he couldn’t put one down.

Not Bucky. Bucky hadn't failed. Not like Steve had. He had taken one hard look at his family and decided the world wasn't worth his time anymore. Not if they weren't safe. He had thrown himself headlong into the war that Steve had invited into their home, laid down on the wire all over again. All because Steve still, _still_ hadn’t learned how to walk away from a fight.

Looks like it’s too late, but he’s walking away now.

The path that leads away from the Facility’s north wing has disappeared under the fresh snowfall, but as he reaches the edge of the grounds, he can see an exposed line of concrete winding along the perimeter of the grounds where the treeline had sheltered it from the blizzard. He stops, waiting for Ruth to close the distance between them, and an impenetrable shadow of grief passes over him, trailing after that single thought of Bucky that he’d let slip past his defenses, and he loses control—his mind can't stay in the present anymore, and he doesn’t have the will to call it back. Selfishly, he strays toward the momentary relief of indulgent memory.

 

_It was too hot to do anything that day. Steve was sweating like a glass of ice water. Even for a guy who liked the warm weather, it wasn’t exactly comfortable, but poor Bucky Barnes looked positively withered._

_Bucky had taken a summer job at the newspaper, writing some horseshit column about the pictures playing at the cinema (probably landed it because he’d worked over at the cinema last summer) and Bucky took that piddly job as seriously as if he owned the paper. He wore a jacket and tie to the offices every day just like a real reporter, even though Steve wouldn't precisely call him that. Never one to be deterred by common sense, that's how he was dressed when stopped by Steve's house after work, with a brown bag full of apples, tomatoes, and corn under one arm and a loaf of bread in his hand. He shouldered the cracked door open without knocking and dropped all the stuff on the kitchen counter as Steve had watched, waiting for an explanation with a book cradled loosely in his hands, now forgotten. All that Bucky said was, "There—that's for that thing you did for me." And with that half-formed mumble of an excuse, he heaved a big sigh, stripped off his jacket, tie, shirt, and shoes and draped them over the kitchen chair, and wet down Steve's only dishrag to throw over his neck._

_An hour later, the sun was finally sinking low—a very, very small mercy in heat like that—and blistering day was passing into humid night. Bucky was stretched out across Steve's bed diagonally, trying to catch the breeze from the open window; Steve was lying on his belly down at the end, propped up on his elbows, feet and head dangling off the edges, with Bucky's legs resting lazily on his arched back. They were a little heavy, but Steve didn't mind. Rudy Vallée sang "Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries" quietly at the kitchen table. Steve loved his voice, but his busted radio was barely up to the task of choking out the song, so he imagined away the static and filled in the missing notes and words wherever he could, sketching mindlessly on the inside cover of his book._

_Above him, Bucky groaned like a rusted hinge._

“ _Shouldn’t you be getting back?” Steve asked. He didn’t want Bucky to leave—he just didn’t want Bucky to stay and be miserable just to satisfy him. Bucky had a fan to sleep with at home, after all._

“ _Girls are all there," he sighed, as if that was answer enough. And really, it was: Rebecca and Louise and Carol were noisy on their own, and if Mrs. Barnes (_ Winnie, _Steve corrected himself, because she would sure as hell correct him) wasn’t at work, there’d be bickering and fussing, too; and sure enough, they’d all be clustered in front of Bucky’s fan, blocking all that precious cool breeze._

_Bucky took the dishrag off his face and waved it through the air like he was trying to shake the warmth out of it rather than getting up to wet it down again. His hair was damp and curling with sweat and water. Almost looked black where it was plastered to his forehead. Steve wanted to point out how captivatingly handsome he looked, but he knew Bucky'd just laugh at him. He was as vain as a peacock when he wore nice clothes and got cleaned up, but when he was like this—messy, exhausted, relaxed—there was no convincing him of how beautiful he was._

_Steve tucked his stub of a pencil behind his ear and flipped through the book he had spent the last half hour defacing, looking for one of the many pages he had dog-eared until he saw the familiar shape of the lines he was searching for. “Here. Maybe this’ll cool you off,” he smiled. Then, before Bucky could question his methods, Steve began to read:_

“Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

“My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.”

_Steve was feeling more self-conscious by the second, reading a poem aloud like that. And when he risked a glance up at Bucky, he only felt dumber; he was staring at him, hardly blinking, looking what Steve guessed was equal parts bemused and entertained. But hell, he was already halfway done. Might as well see it through to the end, if Bucky was going to laugh at him all the same._

“He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound’s the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.”

 _Steve felt stupider than ever, reading the last line two times over, even though that_ was _just how they were on the page. The poet obviously wanted them that way. It had looked so nice printed out in the book and it had sounded at least half that elegant in his head, and then he had stuttered it all out like an idiot. He cleared his throat and shut the book, then finally forced himself to look up at Bucky. He knew his eyes must have been pathetically expectant._

_Bucky’s expression hadn’t changed a bit over the last two verses, and it didn’t change in the silence that followed, either. Finally, his eyes fell shut with a sigh, and he released the breath he’d been hoarding in his lungs. His face broke into a sweet grin. “Hm. Yeah, I liked that," he nodded. The way he said it, Steve couldn't decide whether to smile back at him and feel pleased with himself or to grab the bed sheet and hide underneath it in shame. "Wish you'd read me poetry more often."_

“ _No, you don’t,” Steve smirked through a growing blush. “Really?” he added, too quickly._

“ _Yes, really,” Bucky laughed, shifting on the bed and propping his head up on his elbow to see Steve a little better. “But I wish you’d stop trying to make up dumbass excuses to do it. That didn’t do jack shit to the temperature in here. Real nice poetry, though.”_

“ _I don’t know, I feel kind chilly when I read it,” he protested weakly. “Imagining all the snow at night. Makes my nose feel cold. You know what I mean?”_

“ _Well, just you remind me about that little trick this winter when you want to stick your cold fuckin' feet between my legs. Sing me a verse of_ You Are My Sunshine _and we’ll just see if that warms your feet up.” Bucky groped at the contents of the bedside table as he spoke, too shiftless to turn his head and look for what he wanted, and eventually came away with his lighter and Steve’s smokes. He set the ashtray on his belly and lit two. Steve accepted his with a roll of his eyes. He supposed Bucky had a point._

_Bucky took two long, contemplative draws, and then flicked the ash resolutely like he'd made up his mind about something unspoken. He put the rag back over his eyes and settled down into Steve's pillows again. "Read it to me one more time."_

 

“Dad?”

Steve’s eyes refocus, and he’s staring into the trees again, holding his son and daughter too tightly. Ruth is still a few steps away.

“Dad, what’s happening?”

“I think there’s been an attack.”

“Who was it? Who attacked us?”

“I don’t know,” Steve answers tightly.

“Where are we gonna go?”

“Remember the safe place Papa showed you?”

“Yeah, we—you gotta walk down the trail until that building is right in between the other two," he recites dutifully, pointing to Hangars A and B in the distance, and the Training Center in between them. "Then we go straight into the woods and then we keep walking until we see the cut-down tree." He points a finger, ahead and just to his right. "We'll be able to see the big lake if we look at our two o'clock." Bucky had taught him this from the moment he could talk. He knows it as well as he knows the alphabet, even though he's never had to use it.

“That’s right,” Steve replies, leaning down to kiss the top of Lincoln’s head as he walks, and finding just a little relief in knowing that if he hadn’t made it out, Lincoln would have made his way to the bunker on his own.

Ruth has caught up now, and they strike out into the woods together in silence. Steve can feel her desire to go back and search for Bucky tugging at their steps, wordlessly begging him to turn around, to go back with her and find her dad. He can feel Lincoln’s nervous energy, hoping for the same thing.

“Is Papa going to be at the safe place when we get there?”

Lincoln must know that’s impossible. Still, Steve wants to lie. He wants to go back. He wants to sit down on the frozen ground and do nothing at all. Think about _nothing._ He wants to believe Bucky will be there. But he can’t. “No, baby. He won’t be there.”

“Do you think...do you think Papa’s okay?”

Now, he lies. “I don’t know, baby.”

Wherever Bucky is, he’s not safe. The only other possibility is that he’s dead, and one look at the Facility, knowing Bucky’s current condition, tells Steve that the odds are in favor of death. Other members of the team might be dead, too.

“What about Sam?”

Steve shuts down. “Lincoln, I don’t _know,”_ he repeats, knowing he sounds neither gentle nor reassuring. Knowing something cold has crept into his voice that's not meant for his son. Lincoln tucks his head against Steve's chest and clutches at his shirt in a show of fearful submission, trying to make himself smaller. No one speaks again until they reach the bunker.

 

_Lincoln was nearly three months old by the time Steve spent any real time alone with him. Despite Bucky’s standard paranoia, it was Steve’s anxiety that was to blame for the long delay. For all his patience and sweetness, Bucky didn’t understand why he should have to teach Steve how to care for a child. He had been forced to learn at the tender age of five by sheer necessity, and now it to come as naturally to him as addition and subtraction. Steve had been terrified that he’d make a mistake with no back-up around._

_When Steve had finally gotten comfortable with caring for his son without Bucky’s supervision, Bucky finally had the opportunity to have a few hours to himself every now and then. Predictably, he spent them alone and out of the apartment or out of the Facility entirely, whenever time allowed. Steve would watch from their little balcony sometimes as Bucky’s easy stroll would carry him toward the Facility’s perimeter out into the woods toward Lake Alice, time and time again._

_Steve hadn’t questioned it, of course. He had encouraged it. Long walks around the lake had seemed like a perfect reprieve for someone who spent most of his days shut up indoors, making every decision based on his infant son’s schedule, cut off from contact with the outside world by distance and secrecy._

_Then, when Lincoln was days away from seven months old, they all made the walk together. It was a perfect day: the chill of that foggy October morning, full of muted colors and the damp, sweet smell of autumn changed before their eyes as they walked across the grounds, and the bright sunbeams sent the mist rising into the warming air, leaving behind dewy green grass and paper-white clouds in the brilliant sky. There was a frigid breeze in the treetops, making the russet crowns whisper and rattle playfully. Steve remembers it all in perfect detail._

_Bucky wore a faded jean jacket, washed to a pale blue and worn thin and soft, and in the carrier on his chest, Lincoln was wide awake and talkative. They laughed at the way he liked to pull at and mouth the brass buttons on Bucky’s pockets. Steve had dressed Lincoln that morning—a white shirt and overalls, and a black and orange striped hat for Halloween, with thick socks to match. Bucky laughed every time he looked at him._

_Everything felt so right—so calm and easy and safe—that Steve made no comment when Bucky led them away from the path and out into the dense trees. He was only just beginning to wonder how far from the Facility Bucky was planning to lead them when Bucky turned back suddenly and motioned for Steve to stop and waved him clearly to the right. “Watch your step.” He directed his eyes downward as he said it._

_And Steve finally noticed then that something about the ground a few feet in front of him looked just a little off. A little too flat. He wouldn’t have noticed it if Bucky hadn’t pointed it out—but it was enough to make him kneel down and reach tentatively into the too-soft layer of earth until his fingers met with something else. Plywood._

_It was covering a neatly-dug hole in the ground, effectively camouflaged by dirt and leaves. Steve lifted the board away and peered down into the grave-like opening for only a moment, but it was long enough to see a stack of well-used plastic buckets, a mattock and shovel, and dozens of empty bags. The dusty, sharp smell told Steve they were bags of concrete._

_He looked up to find Bucky standing a few yards away, having turned to look at him, gauging his reaction like he thought Steve might be angry or disappointed._

_Lincoln remained alert and happy, taking in the first autumn he'd ever seen, listening with unquenchable wonder to the sound of the birds around them. He let out a thrilled screech as Bucky bent low, cradling him with one hand, and lifted open a hatch which seemed to be set directly into the earth. Never removing his hand from the back of his son's head, Bucky disappeared down a ladder that led down into the hole, and Steve followed him because he didn't see any other alternative. He knew Bucky. He knew damn well that Bucky had been nervous since the day they'd decided to bring Lincoln into the world. Steve could already guess where Bucky was leading him, and any other question he might have asked would be answered shortly._

_Bucky turned on the bright LEDs set into the walls, revealing precisely what Steve had expected to see—the still-unfurnished shell of a bunker. There was a half-empty case of bottled water on the floor and a few more tools and buckets strewed about, but it looked like the structure itself was nearing completion. On the floor in the corner, Steve noticed a set of filthy clothes, meticulously folded. That was how Bucky had managed to avoid coming home dirty after every walk._

“ _Not bad for a couple hours a week for five months,” Steve remarked quietly, trying to keep any hint of judgment out of his voice._

_Bucky seemed to catch the stiffness in his tone, but he didn’t bother to make any excuses for himself. “Wiring’s all done. Got three generators. No water yet. Still working on ventilation and air filtration, all that stuff.” His expression had indicated that there was more he could tell, but he had studied Steve for a moment and decided not to go on. “I just wanted you to know it was here. Just in case something….well. Just in case.” Lincoln had fallen silent, mesmerized by the strange, wholly unfamiliar environment, but he craned his neck as far as the carrier and Bucky’s hand would let him, taking in the dark, gray room with awestruck, round eyes._

“ _Anybody else know about it?”_

“ _No.”_

_Steve nodded._

_Somehow, it seemed too harsh, especially after all he’d done for them over the last year, after all the apologies. But they’d seen the wrong end of Tony’s genius and means once before, and countermeasures, however small, certainly couldn’t hurt. “Want some help?”_

“ _Yeah, maybe next week.”_

“ _Might not be quite as handy as you,” Steve said, laughing at his choice of words when it when it drew a half-smile from Bucky. He was glad to have lifted some of the gloom from the shell of dimness surrounding them. “But I think I can handle the water.”_

“ _Not gonna tell me how fuckin’ crazy I am?”_

_Steve had reached out and laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s just a doomsday bunker in the woods, man. No big deal.”_

“ _You should get a safe house somewhere, too." Bucky had paused and turned toward Steve so that he could look at him face to face. "Someplace I don't know about."_

“ _You_ are _fuckin’ crazy.”_

“ _I know. I’m sorry.”_

“ _Had one since June. Don’t go looking for receipts, either, ‘cause there aren’t any.”_

_Bucky had stared at him for a moment, trying to read his sincerity, and then bowed his head to a fit of genuine laughter. “Thanks, Steve.”_

 

Steve hasn’t been here in a while. Not since last September, when it had been his month to run a systems check on the perimeter security. He sends Lincoln down the ladder first, following close behind with Brooklyn clutched hard to his shoulder, fussing weakly from inside the cold, wet cocoon of blankets and Ruth’s dusty coat.

“Lincoln—”

“I’m supposed to turn on the lights first, but use the switch at the back of the room, not the one by the ladder. That way the alarm won’t go off,” he recites shakily. Steve can hear him shuffling tentatively through the blind darkness and knows he must be terrified. Still, he manages to make his way through the bunker and turn on the lights.

“Good job,” Steve says hollowly, catching Lincoln against his side as he runs back to him, clutching at Steve’s belt loops.

Looks like Bucky hasn't neglected the place's upkeep since Steve had departed from North Korea. Already, there's a spare carrier beside the bunks, and a dry erase marker lying on top of the deep freezer in the corner where they stored a few perishables. Just beside the marker, Bucky had scrawled dates and notes indicating the shelf life of the backup supply of milk he'd stored there. On the floor next to the freezer there are two cardboard boxes, and Steve recognizes Bucky's hurried, crooked writing on the side of each one. He had labeled them, _stuff for Baby 2._

Steve and Ruth work together in silent tandem. They rinse Lincoln’s face clean. Steve helps him keep his head still while Ruth washes the dust from his eyes. Steve check’s his son’s pupils and cleans the cut on his head. They dry Brooklyn off. Clear her airways. Steve pours a bottle of water over his own face and blinks away the white, powdered concrete that had coated his eyelashes. They find fresh, warm clothes for Steve and Lincoln and bag up everything they had been wearing. Steve gets into the boxes Bucky had left and discovers packages of plain, white onesies for Brooklyn, along with a few warm hats.

She’s finally starting to warm up now, and she’s recovering quickly from the shock and terror of the past hour. She had only been able to manage occasional weak whimpers since Lincoln pulled her free from the rubble, but those are soon replaced by desperate, ardent crying that drones on insistently, continuous, strong, and increasingly demanding as Steve heats up two bottles worth of milk on the camp stove. It makes Steve feel better to hear her crying like that. Hungry. Healthy. He tries not to think about the way she had cried earlier, underneath the rocks. Quieter and quieter.

Steve settles down on one of the bunks with Brooklyn in his arms. He unbuttons his shirt and lets her lay flush against his skin, so she can kick her legs and press her cold feet into his stomach. Her hunger helps her acclimate swiftly to the unfamiliarity of using a bottle. Now that she has food and warmth and safety and the soft crook of Steve’s elbow under her head, she doesn’t fuss at all. She’s limp and sleepy. Gorgeous. Looks more like Bucky by the minute. But perhaps that’s just Steve’s imagination.

Lincoln settles down at the other end of the bunk close to Ruth, although he seems hesitant to let their shoulders touch. He looks at Steve’s lap longingly for a few seconds before finally daring to turn his attention to Ruth. “Are you really my sister?” he asks softly.

Steve is just present enough to marvel at his own lack of anxiety over the direct question. There’s no reason to worry over it anymore. Lincoln needs all the family he can get right now, and one more shock today could hardly harm him any more than he’s already been harmed by the violence that followed his father home. Steve tastes something bitter at the thought. He tries to keep his reply steady and gentle. “Yeah.” He forces a smile, because he wants Lincoln to smile back. “She is.”

“Sam had big sisters and he doesn’t have any little sisters,” Lincoln tells Ruth, as if she should understand. “And Papa, he has little sisters and no big sisters. And I have a really little sister and a really big sister,” he goes on, rambling quietly to himself as he tries to parse out the complex new situation. “I’m a lot older than Brooklyn and you’re a lot older than me.”

“I am,” she concedes.

“How much?”

“I was born in 1974. I turned _forty-eight_ last December _._ ”

“I was born in 2017 and I’m going to be six in five months. Forty-eight minus five is...forty-three,” he concludes, looking to Steve for confirmation. Steve gives him a little nod. “You’re _forty-three_ years older than me?”

“I suppose I am,” Ruth smiles.

“That means my—our dads are really old.”

Ruth raises her eyes to look at Steve, but he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head to say, _Let’s leave it at that, for now._ Lincoln will be satisfied enough with the information he’s been given. There’s no reason to tell him that he and Ruth don’t share Steve in common.

“I’m really sorry,” Lincoln adds softly, “but I guess I forgot your name.”

“It’s Ruth.”

“Why do you...is it bad to ask why...um, why do you talk different than me and Dad and Papa?”

Ruth's smile becomes full and genuine with that question—she's back on familiar grounds and within her area of expertise. "That's not a bad question at all. I have an accent because I've been in Argentina for a long time. I speak Spanish most of the time, so sometimes I don't pronounce English the way you pronounce it. I'm also _really_ good at Latvian, Russian, and Arabic.”

“So you’re really smart, like Papa.”

“He told me you’re learning some Spanish, too.”

“Papa kind of makes me. I didn’t do good on spelling last week. I like to put the little thing over all of the N's because it looks more like Spanish, but that’s wrong.”

“Can you speak a little, or is that too scary?”

“ _Grande hermana_ ,” Lincoln tries unabashedly.

Steve actually finds the will to laugh. “Close,” he nods. He’s so thankful for Ruth’s sweetness that he could weep. His son’s face had been ashen with fear only minutes ago, and now there’s a little color coming back to his cheeks. A little life in his wide eyes.

“ _Hermana_ …?”

“ _Mayor_ ,” Ruth grins. She points toward Brooklyn. “ _Hermana menor_.”

“Little sister?”

“Perfect.”

Brooklyn isn’t making much headway on the remainder of her second bottle. Her belly is round and full, and her quick, shallow breaths and soft expression indicate nothing but contentment. Her feet and hands finally feel warm against Steve’s skin. Ruth and Lincoln fall silent as he raises her up to his shoulder, and for a while they all listen to the steady rhythm of his palm on her back, ticking away the seconds. All three of them seem to feel the sense of urgency that grows as each of those seconds slip away.

Lincoln breaks the quiet after a long minute has passed. “Dad, we’ve gotta go find Papa now. I think he might’ve gotten hurt, so we really need to all go look for him.”

The generators are warming up the small bunker fast, but Steve suddenly feels the late-January cold more intensely than before. He should have left Lincoln with Ruth. He should have let Ruth feed her and warm her up. He should have turned around and gone to find Bucky the moment they were secure inside the bunker, but he hadn’t even _thought_ about it.

 _Why?_ He had been dazed. His head wasn’t in the game. He needed to see Lincoln’s head injury for himself, see how bad it was. He needed to hold Brooklyn, because listening to her cry in the dark for a quarter hour, cold, hungry, and trapped in the rubble with him—that had been too much for him. He needed to _feel_ every breath she took.

And he’s afraid. He’s afraid to leave them.

It’s more than that. He’s afraid to go back. He doesn’t want to go back to the Facility. There are bodies at the Facility, and he knows he’ll be able to put a name to every one of them the moment he sees them. Tony was there. Rhodes was there. Natasha. _Sam._

He’s too afraid to look for Bucky.

He might have to make the walk back to the bunker knowing he’s got to tell Ruth and Lincoln that their father isn’t coming back.

“Dad, we’ve got to _go_.”

 _I know I do. I’m sorry._ “You have to stay here, baby.”

“Dad! No—Dad, I really want to come help find Papa and Sam—”

“Lincoln, you’re staying here with Ruth. She’ll take care of you.”

“But Papa might be—”

"Hey," Steve cuts in too sharply, too loudly. He softens his face and his voice and reaches out across the length of the bunk to lay a gentle hand on Lincoln's knee. "I know you're worried, sweetheart. But you have to stay and take care of Brooklyn. You know how mad Papa would be if I left her without her big brother? Huh?”

“He’d really get mad?”

“Of course he would. She needs you, Lincoln.”

Lincoln takes a long look at his newborn sister as Steve settles her into the carrier Bucky’s left for her. She doesn’t sigh or stir at all, and her heavy head is resting sweetly on the pillow of her shoulder.

“Bring back Sam, too. I don’t think Papa would care if other people found out about our safe place now.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t be making promises, because God Almighty forbid he breaks a promise of that magnitude to his son.

But if Sam and Bucky are gone, there will be enough pain later. There’s no reason to make Lincoln feel the blow too soon. They could both use some hope and blind determination. He lifts Lincoln out of his seat on the bunk and traps him in a tight, reassuring hug. “I’ll bring them back. Keep an eye on your sister.” He turns to Ruth. “If I haven’t found anything in three hours, I’ll come check in.”

“Be careful,” she urges. “We’ll be safe. Don’t worry about us.”

“I’ll set the perimeter alarm. I can get back in without tripping it. If it goes off...Bucky kept a few pieces here. Compartment under the mattress.”

“You know I’ve never—” she grimaces. “Okay. I’ll figure it out. If I need to.”

Steve takes a deep breath before taking his first step toward the exit, but he hesitates. “Ruth...do you feel alright?”

Her brow knits with confusion.

“Do you feel _sad_?”

“I’m _worried_ —”

“Sad enough that you might hurt yourself or someone else?”

“What? I don’t— _no._ No, not like that.”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense right now. But if that changes, if you start to feel...like something is _wrong,_ there’s a panic room through that door. Lock yourself in there until I get back.”

“I don’t understand—I—I’ll do it. Three hours. And if you don’t come back? When do we come looking for you?”

“You don’t. You stay here as long as you can. Don’t go outside, don’t open the hatch.”

“For how _long,_ Steve?”

“I’ll be back in three hours. I promise.”

 

The world outside has gone dark. The cloud of smoke from the Facility’s ruins has stretched out like a hand over the surrounding woods, and the last light of evening has been smothered. The air Steve drags into his lungs tastes burnt and acrid.

The moment he had begun his trek toward the Facility and people who’d been inside it, every step had became a little more desperate than the last, and now he’s pressing through the snow-dusted brush, walking faster and faster until he’s jogging and then running and then sprinting as fast as his shaking legs will carry him. And then his blood’s moving again. His legs don’t shake. Thin, frozen branches strike at his face like whipcord.

He’s still scared. He’s never been this terrified before, unless it was over that icy river in the moment the twisted handrail—Bucky’s last lifeline—had shuddered and failed. But he’s no longer paralyzed. Somewhere, underneath every other frantic thought, he’s burying all of his heartbreak to unpack later. He can feel it burning to break out of him and he’d cry if he could, but his eyes are too hot and dry and full of smoke and cold winter air. He’s clear of the treeline in minutes. It’s not heartbreak that’s making him run.

The numbness of shock has finally passed; in its absence, rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my incredibly long hiatus is over. My job took over my life for a while, I directed a show (which turned out beautifully!), and did a lot of work for the library that I'm really proud of. Made it through some very busy months.
> 
> And then that post-accomplishment depression knocked me on my ass. Real hard. I wrote a lot, but never took the time to edit or post. I really didn't feel capable of jumping back in the game just yet. I'm still kind of struggling through it, but I think getting back to what makes me happy (writing) is going to help immensely. Love you guys to the moon and back, and thanks for waiting around for me, and for all the kind comments.
> 
> <3 -- Zack J


	3. The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sifts through what's left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm still alive. I've abandoned Tumblr, though. You can find me on Mastodon [RIGHT HERE.](https://fandom.ink/@howler32557038) Seriously, if you're pissed at Tumblr, you should try this site out. It's nice.

# Chapter Three

The Fire

 

The fire at the Facility’s core is still burning.

Tony’s Iron Legion is airborne, but there aren’t nearly as many of them responding as there should be, and the units he can see are smoke-blackened and battered. Considering the origin point of the smoke and the condition of the IL units, the fire must have started just below Tony’s labs, where the Iron Legion was housed, and it must have started with an explosion. Steve felt more than one rattle the north wing’s windows just before the collapse. Could have been the oxyacetylene canisters from the workshop. Steve wonders if it had been Banner who set the blaze. Tony had been headed toward the labs, last time Steve had spoken to him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he starts preparing himself to find out that Tony’s gone.

A dozen bodies on the ground by the front entrance. Essential personnel from the labs, from medical. From ops. The snow makes the blood surrounding them stand out. They way they’d fallen, the amount of blood, leads him to believe that they died after escaping. Gun shot wounds. He’s seen enough corpses like those to recognize that particular pattern of carnage. They’d gotten out of the Facility safely, and then someone had executed them.

In the distance beyond the Facility, another plane drops out of the sky somewhere over Chazy. That’s a _second_ passenger plane, dropping out of the sky like a stone. Farther off, there are other columns of smoke. Might be more aircraft down. Might be whole towns burning.

No emergency vehicles in sight. No sirens. No choppers or military planes in the air. No apparent rescue effort.

Looks like the end of the world.

Probably is. Seemed like somebody was always trying to start over, these days. Burn it all down, usher in a bright new beginning on their own terms. Somebody was bound to succeed, sooner or later.

A few hours ago, it would have been his job to save it. Now, he can see how big the world is. How astronomical _the end_ is. Death and destruction on an immeasurable scale. And he’s just one man who doesn’t stand a chance against it. He’s got no team. No Facility. No mission. Feels a little bit like freedom.

The rubble and flames right in front of him is all he cares about.

He walks back over the fading trail he and Ruth had left across the grounds and starts at the stairwell and wall that had trapped him at the moment of collapse, along with Brooklyn. Works his way over the barely-solid pile of wreckage, glass crackling like hot oil under his shoes.

The structural failure must have started at the south end of the building. Looks like the support beams through the center of the south wall had been completely destroyed. As the building had tilted in on itself, the north wall had popped like a bubble.

The western half of the building is still in one piece, but it’s melting to one side and tipping precariously inward over his head. Looks like it had split just east of the main hallway. If Bucky had fled back into their quarters, then he might still be trapped up there with no way down. That means Steve has to find a way up.

He searches beneath the sagging bulk of the west wing, finding very little that he recognizes within the strangely empty, hollow cavern of the ground floor. The force of the upper floors coming down must have sent an awesome blast of wind through the lower levels.

The elevator shaft should be just in front of him. There’s nothing but a pile of broken concrete and the metal doors, folded in half and jutting out of the dusty drop-ceiling tiles littering the ground. The wall to his right looks more intact. Behind the hill of loose debris, there should be stairs. In the unfamiliar, treacherous dimness, Steve begins to dig. Every piece he hauls away from the pile is accompanied by a vivid thought – the leaning, unstable floors above him disintegrating, burying him – but he keeps going until he finds a way in.

The stairwell door is bulging outward under the weight of the crumpled floors, but that’s left a gap near the handle wide enough that Steve can get his arm inside. Teeth gritted and a sudden burst of adrenaline coursing right down to the tips of his fingers, he tears away the door with a shout.

The stairwell is more difficult.

Inside, it’s pitch black and filled with sharp rubble and the knife-points of the broken metal banisters, tilted forty-five degrees toward the building’s center, bending backward like a snapped spine. Somewhere around the fifth floor, the passageway is totally severed. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the nearly lightless environment, Steve can see the gap and the tangle of beams, dust, cable, and warped rods just below. The other side is a little more than two yards ahead and three yard above him. He doesn’t look down into the debris for long – instead, he jumps and grasps at the first thing his fingers touch without further thought or hesitation. The shattered concrete stair in his right hand crumbles instantly, but the crushed metal guardrail in his left holds his weight. Hand over hand, he pulls himself up into the next section, and climbs faster, driven forward by surge after surge of desperate strength.

The access door to the sixth floor is wide open. The fracture of the sealed stairwell must have put tremendous pressure on it. Steve clings to the doorway, and makes his way along an intact section of wall.

The elevator shaft to his right is nothing but a dark, gaping hole, leading back down into the debris pile, and the walls and ceiling around it are black with smoke damage. The left side of the floor beyond that looks strangely unharmed, except that it’s tilted forty-five degrees to the right. A few feet worth of the communal kitchen is still there, granite counters blanketed in dust, appliances gone, cabinets hanging listlessly open. And beyond that, the building is cracked right down to the north wall. The center portion is now unrecognizable debris on the ground floor, but the entrance to his family’s quarters is still here. Sam’s apartment —and last known location—is gone.

The weight of the ceiling has jammed the door to his rooms shut, but it’s only made of wood. Even with the bad leverage created by the structure’s lean, it only takes a few hits and a bloodied fist before it buckles and bursts.

He pulls himself inside, not yet knowing how hard it will be to _see_ it.

He looks reflexively to the bowl on the table just inside the door. It’s overturned, and his keys are cradled precariously between the wall and the table. The coffee pot in the kitchen has fallen off the warmer and shattered on the tile floor. The television in the living room is still clinging to part of its wall mount, crooked, but unbroken. The neatly folded laundry from the sofa is strewn across the carpet. A bookshelf has fallen. The air smells like smoke.

Everything else is exactly as he’d left it.

He takes a flashlight from the kitchen cabinet, along with two spare burner phones, which he pockets, and searches the apartment. The bathroom is empty. Lincoln’s room is empty. When he sees it like that, shaken into chaos, something begins to hurt inside of him that doesn’t register as emotion. Something that feels more like internal bleeding than sadness. He moves on to the bedroom.

One nightstand is on its side. The other is still standing, supported by the bed. The lamp is lying across the pillows, shade askew. The curtains are hanging away from the walls, pulled out of place by gravity, and the cold breeze from the broken window behind them gives them a gentle, ghost-like motion. The covers are still in the same crumpled configuration as the moment Bucky had kicked them away to evacuate. The blood on the pads Steve had laid out to protect the sheets still looks eerily red and fresh. Steve is suddenly aware that it hasn’t really been that long since they fled this room. Brooklyn’s bassinet is overturned.

But none of that can matter. The singular fact that the room is empty is all that matters. Bucky isn’t here. He could have made it over to the main building. He could have fled into the woods. Or he might have been standing on the wrong side of the hallway.

Whatever spot inside him that was hurting is in agony now. He takes a deep breath, trying to manage the pain, but the stench in the air he takes in only makes it worse. He falls back, reclining against the bedroom wall for support and then, with the last of his capability for thought or movement, he rolls to his side. He can taste the fire and dust in his vomit.

He gives himself thirty seconds after the dry-heaves subside, and then he gets up and moves on. He dumps the contents of his gym bag on the floor and fills it with what he wants to keep. Their important documents. The old Kiev files. The battered folder recovered from Tîraine, and its contents – photographs of Lincoln’s birth, photographs of Bucky holding him, years ago, images of their whole family. All the things that link them all together. There are no digital copies of those photos. He takes his keys and checks to see that they’re all there – motorcycle, storage unit, and the keys to his own safe house, down in Red Hook, hidden inside the key-fob. And he takes his shield.

He makes it out of the north wing much faster than he’d made it in. Breaks the balcony doors. Lets himself fall down the incline of the west wall, the bag clutched tightly against his side, shield screeching and sparking against the building’s metal exterior. Remembers at the very last second to tuck and roll just before he hits the ground. After the climb, after seeing the rooms where his family had lived and the home of all his best memories tipped over and poured out like a box of unwanted things and finding no sign of Bucky, the rush of falling feels better than the persistent ache in his throat.

He moves on. Circles back around toward the main entrance, still not looking at the bodies on the ground, until he reaches what must be Ruth’s rental car. Damage on the windshield and front end. She must have driven through the security gate. He glances inside, checks for her cellphone or the rental’s keys, which she had left behind. None of it’s there. A quick survey of the back seat and the trunk reveal that the boxes she had been carrying are gone, too. He’ll parse out the implications of that later and for now, he’ll add it to the growing list of victories for his invisible enemy.

Steve leaves the car doors open and makes his way into the Facility through the main entrance. Except for the flashing emergency lights and blaring alarms, the usually teeming atrium is enveloped in a strangled aura of calm. The broad, elegant curve of the stairs is empty, save for one lab coat, dropped near the bottom step. Tendrils of smoke float in the air undisturbed. The floor shines with little cubes of shattered glass and the snow still blowing in from the destroyed windows.

He hides the bag full of his family’s belongings beneath the information desk – he can hear the whisper of the sprinkler system ahead. Unburdened, he raises his shield and makes the long, cautious walk to the lab, looking around every corner for combatants and finding nothing but encroaching fire.

Every route through every hallway proves inaccessible. The smoke is too thick, even for his enhanced lungs. When he feels himself getting dizzy—chest burning, eyes streaming—he turns back, but by the time he’s made the choice to leave, his body is so hungry for breathable air that he shoulders open the door to a stairwell, praying that the smoke won’t be so thick inside.

It’s only a little better. He coughs and gasps, the heavy taste of ash permeating his nose and mouth as he spits out watery saliva.

For a moment, Steve thinks his own coughing is echoing its way back up the concrete stairwell. But he gets a deep breath and manages to stop. The weak sound coming from just below his current position continues on without him.

Someone else is coughing intermittently, but their voice and lungs are so weak now that the rasps sounded more life the crackle of flames than a human voice. The voice belongs to a woman. In between each coughing fit, Steve thinks he can hear crying.

There’s a loud, screaming fear somewhere in his brain—long-suppressed but too deep-rooted to ever really overcome—that begs him to disregard the sounds of distress and run toward oxygen. The feeling of his lungs buckling under the strain of convulsions is too familiar, and the fear turns to bitter resentment as he makes his way lower, reminding him that he’s here to look for _Bucky,_ nagging at him to return to Lincoln and Brooklyn rather than take another step down the stairs. The smoke may be thinning, but the temperature is rising significantly as he descends. His three hours may already have slipped away. He’s not sure.

The exit from the bottom of the stairwell has caved in, and it looks like another interior wall has collapsed along with it. The voice is harder to discern now that the static-like whisper of fire is closer. Steve still wants to walk away. He almost does, and then the woman coughs again and groans in pain, and without another thought, he’s tossing blocks of crumbling concrete and scorched drywall to the side, digging his way in.

He’d place the temperature around one hundred and twenty degrees now. Whoever is trapped here, so close to the fire in the labs, they’re not going to be alive much longer. He’s only been clearing debris for a minute, but the woman hasn’t managed to cough again.

He finds Sharon Carter lying face down in the ash and dust, pinned from the waist down by a stainless steel worktable.

The table leg is almost unbearably hot to the touch when he lifts it off of her. She remains unresponsive as he drags her up off the floor and over his shoulder. He only makes it ten steps back up the stairs before he realizes that might not be breathing at all and sets her down on the first landing, wondering if trying to resuscitate her here is futile or if waiting would be the deadlier option.

Miraculously, the moment her back hits the concrete, she begins to cough again. She comes around to a state of half-consciousness and he rolls her onto her side, and the dry, wheezing coughs become deep and chest-rattling until she spits ash-gray saliva onto the ground. She might be out of the most immediate danger of the fire and heat, but Steve entertains the grim thought that she still might not make it. The war had been full of fire. He’d seen smoke take a day two to kill a man before.

Sharon has no voice left and hardly a full breath in her lungs, so it takes her a few attempts to get Steve to recognize her sibilant exhales for what they are. “ _Sta-”_ she tries again, and this time, Steve understands.

“In there?” Steve asks flatly, calmed by blind resignation _._ He hauls her up into a sitting position on the stairs and, clinging to the metal rail by her head, she manages to stay there. She nods.

“Su-” She pats her chest to illustrate.

“Suit on?”

Sharon gives another nod. That means Tony might be alive. That makes a search worth the risk.

Steve takes in one last gulp of breathable air and plunges into the lab, protecting his eyes with his forearm and covering his head with his shield, keeping the rain of embers out of his hair. It’s almost too bright inside the lab to see. Everything is distorted and warped by the extreme heat. After a quick sprint through fire, Steve reaches a point in the room’s center that hasn’t yet been engulfed, and from that vantage point, he bites back a wave of panic, ignores the burning air, and takes one long, painstakingly careful look around the blackened remains of Tony’s lab.

By the time he catches sight of Tony’s leg, he has no time left to be delicate. He rushes forward, grabs his friend’s ankle in one hand, and drags him back through the fire and out into the stairwell. Thankfully, the carefully engineered metal of the suit is barely warm in his hand, and when he throws Tony over his shoulder, the armor doesn’t add much weight. With no thought in his mind except the desire for clean air, he hooks Sharon by the arm and pulls her up each flight of stairs stumbling and gasping, and he doesn’t let her stop until they’ve reached the atrium.

Only when Steve sets Tony down on the ground and takes a better look at Tony does he realize that something is wrong. The suit’s eyes are dark. No light from the palms, either. Only the chest plate is glowing, and even that is dim.

“Friday,” he pants desperately, not expecting a response. “Gimme his vitals.”

“Gunshot wound,” she replies from the suit’s external speakers, which must have been damaged in the attack. Her voice is slow and distorted. “No accurate readout on vitals available. All sys—currently redirected to life support. Do not...attempt...move...t.”

_Do not attempt to remove suit._

Steve knew that there had been a gunman. Or multiple shooters. There was enough evidence of that at the main entrance. As far as he knew, Stark had been working inside his lab at the time of the disaster.

The question now became: did the shooter work their way in from the outside, or had they been inside the Facility all along? If Tony was the target, they’d make sure to take him out first, in which case the bodies at the door were an afterthought. Cleaning up witnesses. Exceeding expectations. Maybe just adrenaline.

If they had come in from the outside, though, there couldn’t have been a singular target. The Facility was too expansive, and the staff was trained and armed, even if their attackers had found a way to compromise them. The goal in that case was nothing but a body count. Chaos.

Steve sits back on his heels, wiping black dust away from his eyes. The cavernous atrium is silent now, apart from the distant crackle of flames and the wind humming across the shard-rimmed frames of the windows high above his head. He only allows himself a few seconds to think about it all, but in that short time, his feverish mind finds too many variables to contend with: multiple shooters converging on the Facility. The explosions. Maybe well-placed charges, maybe something else. Something volatile in one of Tony’s storage facilities. The contagion that had swept over North Korea and Jericho – anyone in the Facility, regardless of motive, could have become an active shooter. A single shooter, working their way in from outside of the grounds, mowing through every barrier on their way to the higher-ranking Avengers – but that would be nearly impossible. There weren’t many people that could do it, apart from Bucky.

Then again, there were the files that Ruth had been carrying. Evidence that Hydra had created more agents near Bucky’s caliber before, and could do so again. Files that were now missing.

_Stop thinking. Stop asking ‘why.’ Not your problem to solve. Just find Bucky._

He’s already two hours into his three hour excursion, and now he has Sharon and Tony on his hands. He can leave them here and keep looking for Bucky, or he can walk them back to the bunker. Tony isn’t conscious and Sharon’s not going anywhere on her own. They both desperately need help.

“Come on,” he says softly, voice rough and flat, tone straining against resentment. He retrieves his gym bag from the spot where he’d left it, fixes his shield to his forearm, and hauls his friends up, slinging Tony over his right shoulder and supporting Sharon’s unsteady frame on his left.

He hates every step he takes back toward the bunker. He hates the sound of Sharon coughing and wretching and hates every ounce of Tony’s dead weight. He has his own family to worry about, and he had promised himself that they would be his only priority. He had used that promise like a bargaining chip as he made yet another deal with God over Bucky.

Just before they reach the woods, Sharon faints. Her last coughing spell had deprived her of oxygen for a little too long, and Steve leans down to let her fall over his shoulder as her knees give out. The walk back to the bunker seems longer than ever.

He skirts the bunker’s electronic perimeter and trudges through the icy mud at the edge of the lake. One at a time, he carries Tony and Sharon down the ladder and into the panic room at the back. Ruth and Lincoln watch him wordlessly, sitting up straight and rigid, wide-eyed with hopeful expectation. Brooklyn goes on sleeping on Ruth’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at them as he passes.

As he shuts the door to the panic room, he can hear Lincoln just beginning to cry. He puts the room in lockdown.

He sets a bottle of water beside Sharon, who’s still too dazed to drink it without aspirating. Checks her pulse and finds it quick and fluttering, but acceptable. Finishes off a bottle of water of his own, still tasting the dusty air of what used to be his family’s quarters. Behind him, there’s a hydraulic hiss and whisper of metal.

Tony groans as he removes his helmets, arms visibly shaking and weak even with the assistance of his suit. There’s drying blood on his lips and chin, probably from internal bleeding.

Steve wastes no time. “What do you need?”

“Suit detected the entry wounds once...I got it on, got ‘em plugged up,” he says breathlessly. “Chest, abdomen, shoulder. Don’t think she got my lung. I’m good.”

“Who?”

Tony nods toward Sharon.

He must see the way Steve’s face hardens. He shakes his head slightly, wincing. “Not her fault. She got hit with it, too. She wasn’t in control.”

“Did you see Bucky?”

Tony’s face pales. Looks like it would crumble if not for the way he sets his jaw. “No,” he says, eyes steady and unblinking. “Kids?”

“Got ‘em out.”

“Jesus,” he replies, letting out a pained, rattling breath.

“What did you see?”

“Fuck. All happened at once.” Tony struggles for every word, but Steve isn’t waiting any longer for more information. “Carter dragged her ass into my lab, said she was sick. Shot me three times before I could get her into containment. Got my suit on, called for backup. Guess Bruce finally came down with it.”

“I know,” Steve nods. “We saw him.”

“Must have been in his quarters. They’re close to that lab. Busted right through the wall a few seconds after I put out a call for reinforcements...and he was different. Worse, like when Wanda got to him a couple years ago. Something in the lab blew—not his fault, though. Somebody planted something. Close to the oxyacetylene tanks. Hell of a fire. Spooked him pretty bad. He took off. Guess the glass on the quarantine area saved Carter’s ass. Somewhere in there, must’ve...passed out. Suit shut down everything but life-support for a while.” He takes a moment to get his bearings again. Steve can see the tension in his face, lines deepening as he fights past the pain of three gunshot wounds. “You got anything?”

“North wing collapsed.”

Tony’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does. They’d been cloudy and distant before, and now they could make a clean cut through glass.

“Saw a few commercial planes go down nearby. Looks like there are some big fires burning over in Chazy. Haven’t seen any emergency vehicles. No military, nothing. Whatever that was in Korea, Tony, it’s everywhere.”

“Armageddon. Great.” Tony laughs emptily. “Guess we missed our window. Lost this one,” he rambles on softly as his laughter trails off. “Didn’t even know where the fight was.”

“I’m going back out to look for Bucky.”

Tony nods and moves his hands to his sides, bracing himself against the concrete floor, and somehow pushes himself up to stand. “Okay,” he forces out resolutely. Steve gives him a withering look that he knows will communicate all his complaints and advice to Tony, who responds with a glancing smile that’s meant to be reassuring, even though it looks more like a grimace of discomfort. “I’m good. Suit’s doing all the work.”

“I’m not carrying you back here again.”

“Fair enough. Call me an Uber if I pass out.”

Sharon stirs from her position slumped against the wall, eyes fighting to focus in the dim panic room, and then shifting frantically between Tony and Steve has her vision adjusts to the half-light. Steve kneels down and puts the open water bottle in her hands as a fearful gasp tears through her raw throat.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Steve assures her quietly, trying to help her bring the water bottle to her lips. She takes one drink and one good, deep breath, and then finds she can speak.

“I did—Steve, I—”

“Chill out, Carter, I already tattled on you,” Tony says gently. “What’s a few bullets to the chest between friends? We’re good.”

“ _No.”_ Sharon practically spits the word through her teeth, voice cracking through her damaged airways. “Everything.”

Steve’s hands still against Sharon’s, both still closed around the bottle of water. Her fingers a clenching, shaking against his palms. His mouth hangs open, but he has no reply.

“I did all of this. All of it.”


	4. The Assessment

_"We love you," Steve says seriously. Bucky turns toward him for a moment, surprised that Steve had taken it upon himself to say so._

_Ruth just smiles, like she's trying to put them at ease. "I love you guys, too. I'll be there in six hours."_

_"Call every hour," Bucky orders._

_"I will, Dad."_

_They end the call._

_"Steve—"_

_"I know," he nods, laying Brooklyn down in her bassinet and yanking his shirt on as quickly as he can. "I'll find someone to go meet her."_

_"Is Vision—"_

_"They should be landing in the next hour."_

_"Okay, I'll—"_

_"No, you won't." Steve doesn't let him get any further. He turns back toward Bucky, one hand on the door, and gives him a sharp look._

_"I can—"_

_"Bucky, go to sleep. If you want to help, get better."_

_Bucky shuts his mouth. He doesn't argue. "Just make sure she's alright."_

_Steve is at a loss for where to go. He wants to go meet Ruth himself — verify that she's not being followed, check the contents of the boxes if he can. He wants to take full responsibility and control of that situation. But he wants to stay here. Bucky's going to need help, especially when Lincoln comes back from Sam's apartment. He's going to have to delegate one task and—somehow, even against his most basic instincts—let the other one go. "I'll have her here by the time you wake up."_

 

"More trouble?"

Clint's sigh seems to echo through the silent apartment as Steve makes his way out to the living room. He hasn't looked up from his task at Steve's coffee maker, where he's emptying out the brew-basket and prepping yet another full pot.

"What makes you think that?" Steve tries to smile. Exhaustion adds a bitter edge to his sarcasm as his thumbs work furiously at his phone screen. G _ot a situation. Need to talk when you have time._ He sends the message to Tony, who responds instantly, as always, _Debriefing with Carter. Give me a few._

"Well, you're doing trouble-face, for one thing," Clint explains patiently, testing the coffee's strength by sipping it from the edge of the glass carafe. He finds it passable enough to fill two travel mugs to the brim and pass one to Steve, raising his own for a toast. "Here's to not breastfeeding; moment of silence for our spouses. And, you know, it's trouble. We've always got trouble. This place is a fuckin’ trouble factory. Thank God, I moved out. Hey, _you_ should move out," he suggests firmly.

"Too busy to retire," Steve laughs, heading reluctantly toward the door. Clint stays at his heels.

"Not like you'd be working any less. Look at me! I left, and you finally started inviting me on the good missions. Didn't realize how bad you needed me until I was gone, huh?"

"You're not wrong," Steve admits.

"Yeah, that's all I wanted to hear, Rogers. What've we got?"

"Someone sent Ruth some packages. Documents from Juris Strazds' projects."

"Like…?"

"Stuff that couldn't come from anywhere but a Hydra base. Files on the Wolfpack, information on her, on Bucky — brought it all right to her doorstep. Somebody knows who she is and exactly where to find her.”

"Ruth is definitely someone you told me about. I definitely remember her really well."

Steve glances sidelong at Clint. "Bucky's daughter. Raised by Juris Strazds, lead scientist on the team that altered his reproductive system. Defected from Hydra and fled with Ruth in ‘74."

"Look, Cap, you gave me the rundown on that mess about five years ago. My concussions don't heal up like yours."

"She's on her way here with the boxes."

"You think that's...good? Or more like, ‘exactly what anonymous sender was going for?'"

"I guess we're gonna find out." Steve boards the elevator, wishing that, just once, it would get him to Operations a little faster.

"So where are you guys at on the other thing? News called it some kind of suicide virus?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," Steve answers, remembering what they'd seen in North Korea — cars driven into buildings and through shrieking crowds, mass shootings, state officials wandering the streets barely dressed and blank-faced, the hospitals filled with people, some despondent, some crying themselves into respiratory distress, others cuffed to gurneys, wild-eyed and screaming endlessly with supernatural rage. Suddenly, he wishes Parker hadn't gone to Jericho. "We don't know what it is."

"Should have called me in sooner. You know how much I love it when bad guys try to fuck with our brains. How's Stark doing?"

"Better."

"Darn." Clint is still keeping pace with Steve as they wind through the hallways toward the Operations Deck. Steve can hear Clint’s phone buzzing in his pocket — probably Laura calling to check in. The weight of Clint being away from his family settles on Steve's shoulders, like it always does.

"Hey, little mama," Clint answers the call blithely. "Yep. Everybody's alright. So far, anyway...Yes indeed, ma'am. Last night. Are you ready for this? — _Brooklyn Shelby_. Yeah, real cute, huh? Fat as _fuck_ — sorry, Steve, she's beautiful. — Hey, listen, I'm not too sure when I'll be home. You guys alright? — Good. Put it in lockdown for me. — Just a precaution. It'd make me feel better. I'll call you when I know more. — Love you, too." He ends the call and continues toward Ops with Steve, making no comment on the conversation.

"Clint, you should get home."

"Nah, I think you're gonna need me. Besides, they'll be alright. Laura can get the whole house off the grid in a couple of minutes. No internet, phone-lines secured, place won't show a heat signature or anything. Fury took good care of us. The no internet thing _really_ pisses the kids off, but, you know. They'll live. Makes ‘em read books.”

Natasha's quick stride intersects with theirs just before they reach the Operations Deck.

"Essential personnel only, Barton," she snaps immediately. "You are the most non-essential person I know."

"Then why you keep texting me shit like, _Baby, I need you so fuckin' bad_?"

"Oh, that's your number? I thought that was Laura's."

"Did all the staff get out alright?" Steve interjects. "I was in medical with Bucky when Banner lifted the quarantine."

"No symptoms reported, everybody checked out fine and got home safe. Unless you count Selvig calling Bruce four times to ask if joint pain was a symptom."

Clint startles. "It's not, is it?"

"No," Natasha scoffs. "Selvig has arthritis and so do you."

"Whatever, _you_ got arthritis."

Steve turns another corner. Every hallway they've passed through has been eerily empty. "What are we down to?"

"Forty-five staff on duty in this building; thirty on-call in the barracks."

"Have we pulled out of Jericho?"

"National Guard took over. _I_ got to debrief them," she laughs. "Which was a goddamn debacle. Didn't really want to let them take it, but it doesn't seem to be spreading. Lang stayed behind for surveillance. He'll give us a heads up if the guys with guns and tanks start acting funny," she concludes wryly.

Natasha leads the way into Ops. It, too, is strikingly bare of personnel: there are two senior staff members at their stations, hyper-focused on their computer screens, and every other chair on the Deck is empty. The expansive wall of windows looking out over the west side of the grounds is just as bleak — white lawn, white skies, and white branches on dark, spectral trees. Even with the heat of all the servers in the room, Steve can almost feel the cold.

The team has staked out a corner beside the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled a few chairs into a huddle. Steve, Clint, and Natasha haven't made it a meter onto the Deck before Tony, not bothering to glance up at them, makes his displeasure known.

"Rogers, you are on leave. Fuck off this instant."

"I'm retired, and you're not yelling at me first? Come on."

"You need this to feel useful, Barton; I don't hold that against you."

Tony is sitting on one of the countertops between two control stations, dangling his legs off the edge. Bruce is just beside him, slumped over a swiveling office chair, rubbing threatening sleep out of his eyes.

Thor has stayed with them, thank God. He's leaning against the window, listening. Sharon seems to have paused when they entered, a portfolio full of documents in one hand and a Starkpad in the other. Looks like she'd been doing most of the talking.

"Agent Carter was just telling us that we're not wanted. Have a seat, Cap," Tony smiles.

"Tony, that's not the case. North Korea was a unique situation, and using the Avengers was the only way to avoid international involvement in—"

She's interrupted yet again as Parker comes jogging in, wearing a Stark Industries sweatshirt that's too large to be his and a pair of basketball shorts. He's got a fresh shiner and a bandaged goose-egg just above it. Steve imagines it must have taken one hell of a hit to do that kid any visible damage. He shudders.

"Hi—sorry, hi. Agent Romanoff said there was going to be a debriefing so I—do I need to be here?"

"No," Tony answers instantly.

"Can I stay?"

"Of course you can, kiddo," Tony shrugs. "We were just thinking this meeting could really use a concussed teenager's opinions."

"He's twenty-one years old, Tony," Steve reminds him, forcing himself to relent as well and making a minute nod to indicate that Parker should come to stand beside him.

"Thank you," Peter whispers, and plants himself just behind Steve's shoulder. It's his favorite spot in the room when he feels he's garnered Tony's disapproval.

Bruce clears his throat, looking toward the newcomers. "So—and correct me if I get any of this wrong, Sharon—North Korea has agreed to accept any and all international aid in light of recent events. She's advising that we pull out of there completely and turn over any information we've got."

"The situation is complicated enough without involving a third-party's interests."

"Oh, and you know how we hate stepping on toes," Tony remarks. "I'd hate to bother them with a third-party interest in not letting people die."

Sharon doesn't acknowledge his comments. "The National Guard and FEMA took over relief efforts in Jericho. No new cases there, none in North Korea. Whatever this was, it's becoming manageable. I know it's not the big win we were all hoping for, but I think it's time for the Avengers to tag out on this one," she adds sympathetically, glancing toward Steve.

"Oh, look, what's this?" Tony smiles, tone playful and venomous, as he flicks his wrist and the watch on it toward the computer screen on his left and projects a news report there. "Pretoria. Now, I’m sorry to be so pessimistic, Carter, but this is not over."

"Every major city on earth is convinced they've been hit with this, Tony," Sharon counters. "We're investigating every credible report, including South Africa, but with the influx of possible cases, it's going to take time."

"Real manageable," Clint mutters.

"I mean, I'll turn over my research if Tony gives me the go-ahead," Bruce offers lightly, cutting Clint's sarcastic barb off with a more pleasant tone. "But I don't know if I'm any closer to a solution than they are."

"What's the problem with handing over what we know?" Peter asks in a whisper, leaning toward Steve. "I mean, we want to fix this fast, right?"

"I trust everybody in this complex," Tony answers before Steve can respond. "I don't necessarily trust Agent Carter's co-workers."

"Tony—"

"Nuh-uh," Stark cuts her off. "Don't wanna hear it. Not you guys let a fake shrink in to convince Barnes to trash your building."

Bruce turns back toward the computer screen Tony had referenced, staring at the map of South Africa and tapping his pen against the desk by the monitor as he thinks. "Last new case in North Korea was—when? The twenty-third? And the first case in Jericho was on the thirtieth. Jericho was easier to evacuate, so that might have had something to do with the improved outcome, but they're up to nine hours without a new case. Tony, when did this make it to Pretoria?"

"Ninety minutes ago."

"So it's got a limited range and scope," Steve reasons quietly. "No new cases have occurred in separate locations simultaneously." He knows exactly what that means. He's just waiting for Bruce to say it.

"That tells us a lot, but I don't think it's what your bosses are gonna want to hear, Agent Carter," says Bruce, still studying the map. He sits up straighter in his chair, shoulders suddenly rigid. "This is the confirmation we were looking for. This is not communicable from person to person contact and, more importantly, it tells us that—"

"Somebody's doing this," Peter finishes softly, face tense. "It's not a disease. It's an attack."

But Sharon doesn't look convinced, and nothing could make Steve feel more uneasy. A delay in action right now could be fatal. "We've still got dozens of potential vectors to eliminate. We've got absolutely no proof that travel between North Korea and Pretoria didn't cause this outbreak. Look at where they occurred, Stark: the only two cases so far are at the DPRK embassy, and you want to let Banner rule out person to person contact?"

"You're telling me you can't track down travel records between the DPRK embassy in Pretoria and North Korea?" Clint laughs.

Natasha holds up her phone, eyebrows raised. "Well, I'm happy to help. There hasn't been any."

"There are still too many other potential sources," Sharon bites back. "Contaminated food products, plastics, contaminated bottled water from any number of places, goods from China—"

"Please tell me you're not suggesting that any of that is likely enough to rule out terrorism," Bruce interrupts with an incredulous smile.

"Of course we're not," Sharon replies coldly. "But we are trying to avoid making that our first guess."

Bruce's smile of barely restrained frustration becomes a sharp, cutting laugh. "Well, Sharon, if the shoe fits—"

"It is the current opinion of the joint counterterrorism task force that this is not a directed act of international terrorism," she states, voice and eyes hard and authoritative.

Steve tries to keep his own tone neutral. "Why?"

"There's no common target. There is no motive, no agenda, and there have been no demands."

Nat's jaw tightens visibly as she inclines her head toward Sharon. "Not yet. Not that you know of."

Bruce looks like he has to force himself to stop chewing his thumbnail, but after a moment he suddenly stands up as if he's been struck with a flash of clarity. The room falls into silence, waiting for him to speak. He lets out a long, labored sigh when he realizes that he's managed to capture everyone's attention. "If this was me," he begins, seeming to speak more to himself than his teammates until he finally collects his thoughts. "If I were going to launch an attack of this magnitude, something this massive, and do it all under the radar, using—and I'm sorry to say this, but—brilliant, undreamt of tactics, I wouldn't settle for a small target, and I wouldn't work slowly and give people time to catch me. But I also wouldn't take unnecessary risks. Whoever this is, they've got a hell of a weapon: something we've never seen before. Not on this scale, anyway. If I have that kind of weapon and I want to hold the world hostage, I get one chance to pull the trigger. I'd need a test run, and I would need a failsafe. So what do I need for a good test? Fewer variables. How do we eliminate variables?"

Tony shakes his head. He understands Bruce's conclusion already, and his face sinks. "We isolate the test."

"And if I needed to perform that isolated test on a large scale, I couldn't ask for a better place to do it than North Korea. So I test it there, right? And it works. End the test. Move on. Add the variables back in: race, diet, age, international travel, population density, access to medical care—that's Pretoria. The Avengers are working on it? Hit them close to home—doesn't have to be big, just enough to slow them down: Jericho. Whoever this is, they're not some backwoods radical with a political vendetta, this is a scientist, and they want to do a lot of damage. They’re taking making damn sure this thing works."

"Backwoods radical and brilliant scientist - not mutually exclusive, in my experience," Tony reminds him.

"We can't keep worrying about damage control in single cities - not even whole countries. Those aren't the end goal. Our only focus should be on tracking down who this is and stopping them before we're dealing with something larger than a test or a distraction."

Sharon sits with that for a few seconds before responding. "I'm not disagreeing, Dr. Banner. But I've got a chain of command and a lot of other expert opinions to consider here, and every entity with a hand in international security wants accidental contaminants ruled out before we start pointing fingers or throwing around the T-word. We say _terrorism,_ and I give it twenty-four hours before the US picks a new Baghdad to bomb. Then we've got civilian casualties on our hands. Even if this was intentional, we have to be absolutely certain about who did it before we move. Pretoria and South Korea _will_ be treated as strategic targets by the international community. They've been on good terms since apartheid; seven out of the first ten cases in Pretoria are connected to the DPRK embassy, and if we start looking at the rest of their allies, all of whom would be considered potential targets, this gets messy fast."

Tony nods, rubbing his eyes. "Pakistan, Syria, Libya, Cuba…"

"Imagine if we start seeing cases in Pakistan."

"Somebody would have Israel wiped out in a week," Bruce sighs.

"Can we just—am I allowed to talk?" Peter asks, looking to Tony for permission.

"Grudgingly," Tony replies.

"Shouldn't we _just_ worry about how it spreads? I mean, won't that kind of kill two birds with one stone? We can get rid of whatever's spreading it, plus we can track it back to its source and find out who started it."

Tony stares Peter down like there's another snide comment on the tip of his tongue, but Steve catches his eye. Parker is right. Everyone else is tangling this up in politics, and Peter has cut to the heart of the issue. Tony seems to let all of the tension out of his body with his next breath. "Yep. Kid's right. So, Agent Carter, if it's alright with your experts and your chain of command, the Avengers will bow to the wishes of the international community and withdraw our troops for the time being, and Dr. Banner will hand over all of his research, but we are gonna race them to the cure. May the best team win. Sound agreeable?"

Sharon nods, just once. Steve can see from her expression and Tony's veiled implications that he's only witnessing the conclusion of what must have been a far lengthier and more complicated disagreement that had muddied the path to Parker's easy solution. Frankly, he's not surprised: Tony is a vigilante at heart, despite his past lapses into authoritarian bullshit, and his disdain for bureaucracy nearly matches Steve's disregard for it. Sharon, like, Peggy, prefers to rebel quietly from within the bureaucracy, but never go so far as to leave it.

"Okay," Bruce groans, rising and stretching out his sore back. "I'm going to keep working my end, but I've gotta sleep first, guys. We're going to have more immediate problems than international relations."

"We all support that decision," Tony announces. "Nobody bother Bruce for the next six hours." His order seems to be directed solely toward Sharon. "Carter, I'll get you what you need."

That signifies the end of the meeting to all parties, and the group begins to break up and go their separate ways. Clint remains at Steve's side. Bruce collects his coat and turns toward the door, and his eyes meet Steve's like he's noticing him for the first time. "Hey, buddy," he says, voice suddenly as kind and gentle as ever, regardless of the tense conversation. "How's everybody?"

Steve finds himself smiling back—everything else is easy to forget when he thinks of what's waiting for him in his quarters. "Well, Lincoln and Sam are crashing in his quarters, Bucky's getting some sleep. Brooklyn is...she’s recovering. First bath was pretty bad," he chuckles.

"She not into that?"

"Oh, if she'd had a weapon, I'd be dead."

"Wait—Cap? The—did the baby happen?" Peter blurts out.

"Baby happened," Steve confirms.

"Holy shit! And did you say her name was—what'd you name her?"

"Brooklyn," Bruce smirks, shouldering his bag and making a straight shot toward the exit as if he's leaving Steve to deal with consequences of his choice.

But Peter grins. "Wow. Captain America, you know...and Bucky Barnes. Kid named Brooklyn.  Yeah," he decides, nodding faster and faster as he continues to consider the name. "Good shit, Cap. Sorry. Head injury. I super like it."

"Glad to hear it." Steve doesn't mean to ignore him, but he's forced to end the conversation there with a quick, apologetic pat on the shoulder. He wants to catch Sharon before she leaves, and she's heading for the exit in a hurry.

Steve jogs after her and catches her by the arm, and as gently as he touches her, she seems to take it like an electric shock. "Hey—" And something about the way she looks at him in that first moment as she turns makes him draw his hand back instantly. She looks close to tears, or else close to spitting in his face. He was going to tell her that Sam is just upstairs. That he'd probably love to see her, even for a few seconds. Tell her she's once again a godmother. "You okay?" is all he manages.

Her expression melts into exhaustion. She's a ghost. "I'm sorry," she sighs, voice tight. "I'm under a lot of pressure right now."

"I know," Steve nods. "And, listen, I know we're all assholes," he laughs, glancing back at Tony and the others. "But we _are_ here if you need us. We'll have your back."

"This is very time sensitive," she replies, not acknowledging his offer. "I just need to see it through."

Steve feels himself flush with regret and embarrassment. Sharon's in the middle of an international crisis and he's worrying about whether or not she's talked to Sam and wishing she could take a few minutes to meet Brooklyn. Pretty childish of him, now that he thinks about it. And her posture, her tone, the stress and determination radiating off her — that's all a little too familiar. He's been in her shoes a million times over. He knows where she's at. He shouldn't have slowed her down. Still, he gives her the same reminder she always gives him, knowing it won't make a damn bit of difference: "Take care of yourself."

She leaves the Operations Deck at a brisk pace, head down and shoulders low, bound for her next task.

Steve doesn't have any more time to worry about her; Tony is at his elbow before he hears him coming.

"Okay, Steve. Your turn. What can the great and powerful Oz do for you?"

"God, they must really have her feet to the fire," Steve sighs.

"Overworked and underpaid," Tony mumbles, gesturing for Steve to follow alongside him as he walks. Clint stays a few paces behind, but sticks with them. "Also, irritatingly naive in her trust of the acronyms, but I'll leave that one alone. What about you?"

"When is Vision due back?"

"ETA's ten minutes, but Rhodey's flying the jet, so ETA three and a half minutes."

"I think I need his help."

"Yeah, me too. Wanna flip a coin?"

"I'll explain once we're alone."

"Ooh, neat." Tony's voice is flat and tired. "I was really hoping — no, _yearning_ for another fucking crisis."

Steve cringes reflexively. "I'm sorry."

"No, I really was. You know I thrive under pressure. I have zero time for brunch cocktails or self-hatred. This is probably good for me."

 

They make it down to the hangar just as the jet touches down. Wanda and Rhodes deboard in record time, stumbling down the gangway and obviously running on fumes.

"Sent the report," Rhodes announces as soon as Tony is within earshot.

Tony clasps his hand in greeting and pulls him into a quick hug, patting his back bracingly. "Hit the showers. I hate debriefing smelly people."

That's Tony's way of telling them to get some rest and collect themselves.

Steve meets Wanda on the platform and gives her shoulder a squeeze. They'd seen hell over there, and Steve knows it. In spite of it all, her sunken face lights up. "If you're here to meet us, that must mean everything went well," she smiles.

"Well, I got a eleven and a half pound baby girl delivered during a quarantine. I'm sure not complaining."

"Did Barnes live?" Rhodes asks with a deep grimace.

"Oh, yeah," Steve laughs. "Bruce had to put him back together, but he's doing alright. I'm so sorry I had to leave you guys out there."

"It was nothing but clean-up by the time you cut out," Rhodes assures him.

"We managed," Wanda confirms, smiling when Clint steps forward to throw an arm around her.

Steve can see how spent they both are. He knows it couldn't have been easy on them, even with Vision's tireless help.

"Go get cleared by medical before you hug anybody else," Tony orders, waving them impatiently toward the elevators. "And then I will happily update you on the continuation of this unabating shitstorm."

There's a glimmer just past the cargo door on the Quinjet, and Vision steps out just as the remainder of the human appearance he'd assumed in North Korea melts away. His expression is appropriately grim, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the month-long mission.

"Captain" He doesn't afford Tony the same pleasantries. "I assume you've heard about Pretoria."

"Yup," Tony replies brusquely. "And we're butting out for now."

It's not easy to surprise Vision, but that does it. "Surely, we have more experience in—"

"You wanna go tell that to the UN?"

"Yes, I would be glad—"

"Forget it. Rogers needs to borrow you." Tony turns on his heel and cuts toward the nearest unoccupied control room, correctly assuming that Steve wants his request handled with all possible discretion.

They file into the small room behind Stark, but Clint keeps his distance, planting himself a few yards away, leaning casually against a wall and apparently texting someone. Steve can see that he's watching the rest of the hangar and the hall outside the control room; he's been uncharacteristically silent since they left Operations, and there's a particular frown on his face that Steve has seen there before, although it's usually accompanied by a bow and arrow in his hands and encroaching combatants. Something's got his hackles up.

Tony glances over his shoulder momentarily, reading Barton's tells just as quickly as Steve does. "Alright, Cap. You've aroused everyone's curiosity. And this better not be baby pictures."

"Yes, of course, congratulations—"

"Vis, seriously."

Steve takes a deep breath. He spends the next few seconds untangling himself from the Avengers' problems. It's all winding inextricably together with his fears for Ruth — and maybe not without reason. He has no evidence to link the arrival of those boxes at Ruth's home to the events in North Korea, except the timing. But timing is rarely pure coincidence. "I think someone is planning to hurt Ruth."

"Who?" Tony asks instantly.

Vision's eyes narrow minutely as he observes Steve.

"Hydra, or someone connected to them."

Tony turns away with a scowl, hissing, "Motherfucker."

"Why do you suggest Hydra?"

"Someone brought a few boxes to her house. Went past her gate to leave them right on her doorstep. They're her father's files — film, notes, photographs. Things that could only have come from a lab — probably the containment facility in Siberia. Must have been moved to another location before we got there."

"Did she handle them?" Vision asks calmly.

"I don't think so. Not once she realized what they were."

"I'd be happy to transport them here," Vision offers. "Although, even for me, a trip to Argentina may take—"

"She already flew here. She's trying to drive through Queens with the boxes in her back seat."

"Great," Tony interjects. "Christ, does the blatant disregard for personal safety just run in the Barnes family?"

"And you'd like me to meet her and escort her back to the facility?"

"Can you?" Steve makes his firm plea to both of them. Vision will go if he can, but it's Tony who has the disaster on his hands: it won't be easy to spare Vision right now.

But Vision also turns an imploring gaze towards Tony, and Tony doesn't hesitate for a moment before he nods in affirmation, tight-lipped and tired-eyed. "But I'm going to have to hold you up for at least an hour. Carter needs a big data transfer and I want you to handle it. Got a couple special instructions. Internal security shit."

Steve lets go of a long-held breath. "That's fine. God. Thank you. I'm so sorry—"

"Steve, quit," Tony snaps, casually checking a message on his watch as if to emphasize how little trouble it is to help. "This is a no-brainer, so don't grovel just ‘cause I'm doing the right thing. Reflects poorly on me." Suddenly, his voice drops to a soft, low timbre. Shock. "Shit, look at that."

Steve waits for the other shoe to drop, watching Tony's eyes flicker from line to line of text until they finally meet his again.

"Zemo's dead."

Steve opens his mouth, already forming the shape of the word: _How?_

Tony answers before he can speak, eyes shut as his mouth twists into a livid grin. "Oh, you're gonna love it. Suicide."


	5. Weary Heads

_"Zemo's dead."_

_Steve opens his mouth, already forming the shape of the word:_ How?

_Tony answers before he can speak, eyes shut as his mouth twists into a livid grin. "Oh, you're gonna love it. Suicide."_

* * *

In the cramped room, Steve has to fight the urge to take a step forward. “Do you think it’s—”

“We’re not going to worry about it,” Tony orders. “Agent Ross is investigating. He knows as much as we do about the attacks, and he’s been working with Zemo since he was brought in. It’s the guy’s third attempt, Steve, don’t think too much into it.”

“Little difficult right now,” Steve replies, voice sharp and quiet.

“Tony, I’d like to finish my work with you and Agent Carter as quickly as possible, please.  Ms. Strazds’ predicament could become volatile.”

“Yeah. Agreed.”

“And Steve—” Vision begins, voice as gentle and human as any Steve has ever heard, “You should sleep.”

How long has it been since his last day in North Korea? Twenty-one hours in the field. He’d gone back to the jet and slept for two hours. Then eighteen hours of more field work. Nine piloting the Quinjet back to New York, back to the apartment at 1600. Nine hours delivering Brooklyn. Six hours of stitches and blood transfusions and IVs and Bucky’s tired hand trying to squeeze his and shaking more by the hour. Three hours getting cleaned up at the apartment, showering, settling Bucky into bed. Another hour has passed since he’d left the apartment. Sixty-nine hours, and he’s slept for two of them.

Not as long as he’d been awake during the attack on New York and nowhere near how long he’d managed to run when they’d chased down Ultron, but the adrenaline that had carried him through those fights isn’t with him now. He’s worried and anxious, but there’s no war to fight. Not for him, not right now. There’s only waiting: for the Quinjet to land; for Brooklyn to come; for that twenty-second stitch; for Vision to land; for Ruth to arrive safely.

“You wish there was more you could do to help,” Vision tells him with a sympathetic smile. “But you are showing very clear physiological signs of exhaustion. I’m sure you could sleep intermittently while helping Bucky care for your new daughter.”

Steve feels an indescribable wave of relief when he lets his head drop and his shoulders relax, and allows himself a deep breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“Oh, so we’ll listen when Vision says it,” Tony remarks dryly, although there’s a kind, satisfied look about him when Steve gives in.

They file out of the small control and into the hallway, one by one. Clint doesn’t move a muscle until Steve passes him, and then immediately falls in step beside him. Steve speaks first, slowing his pace and allowing himself to fall behind Vision and Tony. “You got a bad feeling?”

“Always,” Clint chuckles, but his mirth doesn’t linger. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. That Jericho shit...I don’t like it. I’m not gonna be surprised if something really big falls into our lap in the next couple days, you know?”

“Mm.”

“Feels like Fury’s going to show up any minute. Tell us to assemble our asses and hit the road.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna try to get some rest?”

“Yeah, I am,” Steve answers resolutely. “And you should go home.”

Clint frowns, eyes forward and distant, weighing outcomes and second-guessing himself even before he makes his choice. “You’re probably right.” He pauses for a few minutes, walking silently, but Steve can tell there’s something else he wants to say. Finally, when Vision and Tony part ways with them and head for the labs, he stops and catches Steve’s eye. “You wanna bring everybody out to the farmhouse for a while? We got spare bedrooms, man. Barnes and Brooklyn could rest up just fine up at our place, me and Laura could help out, Lincoln would have some other kids to play with...I don’t know, man. It’d make me feel a lot better.”

Steve doesn’t just think about going with Clint—he imagines every detail of that old farmhouse. He doesn’t know why, but it feels _better_ . Less vulnerable than the Facility, in spite of all the Facility’s advanced safeguards. Hidden away, off the grid, far from Jericho. Away from the team—somewhere he’d be completely cut off from their problems and their needs, where he could prioritize his family. Finally, he clears his throat and winces—it’s not easy to let the idea go. “I need to stay. I have to be here when Ruth gets in.” _And I want to be here. With my team. Just in case._

Clint nods, tight-lipped and resolutely accepting of the answer. Steve can still see that he’s disappointed and worried, and that there’s more he’d like to say, but he must know he won’t change Steve’s mind. He claps Steve hard on the shoulder, as if to punctuate the end of the conversation. “I’m gonna head out, man.”

“Take care of yourself, Barton.”

“Oh, you fucking know it,” Clint replies flatly.

* * *

Vision calls just before the elevator reaches the sixth floor. “Yeah?” Steve answers eagerly.

“This data transfer won’t take long,” he explains immediately. “I expect to finish with the next thirty minutes.”

“Great. Are you alone?”

“For the moment. I’ll need Ms. Strazds’ cell phone number.”

Steve forwards it to him.

“Wonderful. Please tell her to leave her location services on. I’ll be able to find her much faster.”

“Will do.” Vision ends the call without another word.

Steve’s thumb is hovering over Ruth’s name in his call history when it buzzes again in his hand. The moment he sees her number illuminated in the center of the screen, he’s worried that Vision’s departure will already be too late. He answers immediately. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she hurries to assure him. “But it’s going to be longer than I expected. The roads are really bad—”

 _Thank God._ “Where are you?”

“Well, _trying_ to navigate the New Jersey turnpike, but it’s—”

“Hell on earth,” he finishes for her, smiling sympathetically as he steps off the elevator. He’s fast-approaching the door to his quarters, and his eyes are stinging with lack of sleep. “Do you have money for the tolls?”

“Yeah, I changed some pesos at the airport—” She cuts off for a moment, and he hears a few whispered curses and car horns nearby, followed by a soft apology from Ruth which doubtlessly goes unheard by the angry drivers surrounding her.

“Keep driving for now. Is your phone charged? Can you keep it on?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Okay — I’m sending someone out to you. He’ll be able to track your location  — is that okay?” Steve stutters, unlocking his door. “He can be there in about an hour.”

“Is—what? Who should I be looking for? How is he going to get here that fast?”

“He’s flying.”

“Oh, Steve, no. You’re not honestly sending a jet, are you? Please, don’t—”

“I didn’t say I was sending a jet,” Steve replies. He can’t help but sound just a little smug. “I'm sending an android. Just so happens, that android can fly.”

Ruth’s stunned silence tells Steve that she must be having trouble processing that information. “Oh!” she says suddenly, and Steve could be imagining things, but she almost sounds delighted.

He laughs. “Yeah, the Avengers don’t have a bad welcoming committee.”

“Steve—”

“Yeah?”

Ruth pauses for several long seconds, occasionally taking a preparatory breath as if she’s finally sorted out her thoughts, and then stopping short of speaking. Finally, she clears her throat decisively. “I just wanted to say — well, thank you.”

Steve smiles, finally stepping into his apartment, welcomed by the soft light coming from the living room windows and the homey untidiness of every surface, wondering if he’ll find time to clean it before Ruth arrives. “Stay safe.”

* * *

He's done all he can do. That's going to have to be enough.

God, he hopes it's _enough._

The dim hallway leading to his bedroom door has never looked quite so inviting. He leaves his shoes beside the open doors of the linen closet and the overflowing basket of unfinished laundry. He could put it in the wash. Wouldn't take but a minute. But his tired feet are already carrying him toward Bucky, and Brooklyn.

Even in the midst of all this relentless upheaval, he gets a thrill of joy every time her name rings out in his brain. In spite of so many days worth of exhaustion and long hours of chaos upon returning from his mission, he's already smiling as he steps through the door.

Bucky, unsurprisingly, doesn't stir in the slightest when the door opens. A lapse—even momentary—in his normal hyper-vigilance is rare, but even for someone with Bucky's enhancements, his body has been through unfathomable stress. Brooklyn, on the other hand, seems to be awake. Her eyes aren't open, but her arms are waving and she's breathing hard with the exertion of testing out her limbs with all her newfound open space. She must have been squirming for a while. She's practically knocked her little hat off her head.

Steve takes a long look at her, struggling to keep his laughter quiet. Between her hat and her thick, soft onesie, she's all cheeks. He can't control himself. He reaches down and brushes a thumb over each of them, from the corners of her mouth all the way to her earlobes. Her mouth opens searchingly the second he touches her, and when food doesn't immediately follow the contact, she lets her discontent be known.

Steve cringes as her face twists with irritation, and the wail that follows is just as loud and insistent as he knew it would be. He's got her on his shoulder in an instant, thinking that maybe he can make it out into the hallway with her before Bucky wakes up. She can deal with a bottle if it means Bucky gets a little more rest.

But it's already too late—Bucky can't hear that and go on sleeping. Granted, he doesn't look like he can exactly wake up either. His left arm gropes blindly over the empty half of the bed, and then he forces his eyes to open and carefully pushes himself up on his elbows, mumbling a slurred approximation of, “What time is it?”

“About a quarter past.”

“Past what?”

“Eleven. You haven’t even been out for two hours,” Steve laughs, and lends him a hand to help him roll onto his side, then lays Brooklyn down against him and settles in behind her, cradling her between both of their bodies. Even in the new position, she doesn't take long to latch. She certainly doesn't have any problems eating.

“Did you—?”

“Vision’s wrapping up with Tony right now, and then he’s going to go meet her.”

Bucky’s sigh of relief seems to release all of his energy along with it, and he lets himself fall bonessly against the pillow and Steve. His physical capability has been reduced to supporting Brooklyn’s head and patting her bottom to calm her down—she’s apparently overjoyed to be fed, especially while tucked in between them where it’s warm, and she’s paddling her feet happily against Bucky’s stomach. Steve stares at her for a while, until he’s once again overcome with laughter. Whatever part of him is still a child of the Great Depression absolutely adores her fatness.

"Fuck," Bucky groans softly.

"What?"

"Feel like shit."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do." Steve covers his frown with a sympathetic smile. "Still bleeding?"

"Think I lost a fucking liter turning over."

"I'll clean up when she's done."

"Could you grab another pad out of the freezer, too?"

"Yeah. What else?"

"Water. And I've got to go to the bathroom. Cramps are so much worse than they were with Lincoln."

"Heating pad?"

"God, yeah."

"What else?"

"What," Bucky laughs weakly. "That list wasn't long enough?"

"You made us a gorgeous eleven and a half pound baby girl and you just about killed yourself getting her out, too. If you said you wanted me to run to Red Hook to buy you a bagel, I'd put on my running shoes."

"We got bagels on the counter. And you own a bike and a car."

"I know. I was just trying to impress you."

Bucky smiles. "You're the best dad in the whole world. You know that?" he mumbles groggily.

Steve actually feels his jaw drop with sheer delight. "That's the best compliment anybody ever gave me," he chuckles. "I mean—it’s not true, but...thank you."

“I don’t know anybody that’s a better dad than you. Well—maybe me. I go the extra fuckin’ mile.”

Steve chokes out a surprised laugh, which only makes Bucky laugh harder at his own joke until he’s grimacing with pain and teary-eyed. Steve almost feels bad for him, but it's good to see that grin lighting up his dark-rimmed eyes. Suddenly, Bucky gasps, eyes snapping open. “Steve, have you checked on Lincoln?”

“Fuck!” he blurts out. “I forgot he was over at Sam’s!”

Bucky groans, burying his face in his prosthetic arm and pulling Brooklyn closer as Steve scrambles back out of bed. “Maybe we’re just _okay_ dads.”

* * *

It’s been nearly a minute since Steve knocked on Sam’s door. He can hear movement inside, but no voices, and no answer.

Finally, his son’s timid voice filters through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“A bad guy,” Steve answers in a gruff voice. “You better let me in.”

“What?” Lincoln says with a little unsure laugh. “You...um, you should go away.”

“I came to steal all your waffles and make sure you had your toothbrush.”

“Dad?”

“Yep. Open the door.”

“I’m just not sure, because you might not be,” Lincoln frets.

Well, at least he’s appropriately cautious. “Can Sam open the door, then?”

“Sam fell asleep and he’s snoring really loud. I—I’m going to let you in, but don’t get mad at me if it was a trick question and I wasn’t supposed to open it—like, if you were trying to teach me about not opening the door for strangers, okay?”

“I promise not to get mad at you,” Steve grins, fighting back laughter.

Lincoln peeks out of the cracked door a moment later, and only opens it completely once he’s taken a good look at Steve. “Hi, Dad!” he whispers as Steve sweeps him off the ground and onto his hip.

Steve plants a noisy kiss on his temple. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Yeah, and Sam went back to sleep because I kept on starting _The Great Mouse Detective_ over and I guess he got bored.”

Indeed, Sam is still sitting upright on the sofa, facing his television, arm extended and curved as if it had been resting over Lincoln’s shoulders. His head, however, is flung backward against the couch cushion and his mouth is wide open. The precarious angle makes his snores into long, high-pitched whines. Lincoln falls silent, waits for one, and then laughs.

“You better let him sleep, Lincoln, he’s really tired.”

“What about Papa? Can Papa get out of bed yet?”

Steve flinches. It’s just bedrest, but there’s no way to explain it to a kid without it sounding scary. “Well, Papa has to stay off his feet for a little while.”

“So, he can’t, like, wrestle or anything?”

“Right now he’s not allowed to walk.”

“Like when Wanda accidentally smashed your ankle with that rock and you had to use crutches for a week, and wear that big shoe.”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

Sam’s arm slips down the couch pillows onto a the empty seat where Lincoln had been, and they watch him startle awake, looking around frantically for a few seconds before he sees his open doorway and Steve standing just inside it with Lincoln in his arms.

“Sorry, man. Passed out. It’s that mouse movie.”

“Hey, you’ve earned more naps than that.”

“Slim, did you show Dad that card you made?”

Lincoln clambers down and rushes to the end table on Sam’s side of the couch, trampling Sam in the process. Steve offers his friend an apologetic grimace as Lincoln hurries back with the card. It’s mostly permanent marker, with embellishments in red, black, and blue inkpen, and a single green crayon. It reads, _Happy Birthday Brooklyn_ , each word’s lettering shrinking and cozying up as they near the edge of the page, with a row of exclamation points beneath the text. “I didn’t have my art supplies,” he explains, looking a little embarrassed.

Steve opens it to find that Lincoln had indeed tucked both of his five dollar bills inside. It’s all of the money he had received for letting Bucky yank out his tooth back in medical last night. Steve slides the bills aside to reveal another brief message, _FROM: Lincoln Samuel Barnes-Rogers (I am your big brother)_. Beneath this, there is an asterisk crossed with too many lines, bulleting a _PS—You cannot buy food yet._

“I don’t know why I put all that,” Lincoln admits with a forlorn shrug. “She can’t actually read.”

Steve lays his hand on top of his son’s head and pulls him close, mussing his hair lovingly. “Good thing she’s got a big brother who can read to her, huh?”

“Can I read her _Harry Potter_ when she wakes up?”

“She’s a little young for _Harry Potter._ ”

Lincoln gives him a skeptical frown. “Can I come see her? And Papa?”

“Yeah, I think they’re both awake right now. Sam, you coming?”

“You bet, I am.”

Lincoln heads down the hallway at a run, only to be caught just before bursting into the apartment. “Keep it down, buddy,” Steve smiles. Lincoln takes the preemptive warning very seriously, and turns the door handle like he’s defusing a bomb. Steve is just about to follow him inside when he finds himself caught by the arm, too.

Sam studies him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Have you been to bed yet?”

“I’m okay,” he chuckles. “I didn’t want to leave you saddled with him all day—”

“Oh, uh-uh,” Sam chastises him. “I’ve got him until you sleep. We’ll grab some of his stuff while we’re here and have ourselves a play-date, and you’re not going to worry about us again today.”

“You sure?”

“Am I sure I want to color and watch _Jurassic Park_ and eat junk food and whoop his ass at video games? Yes, I’m _sure._ After North Korea and delivering a fucking baby during a lockdown, Steve, that is the kind of day I need.”

Steve shifts away, unsure if he should say anything or not, and finally deciding that he won’t have another convenient opportunity. “I talked to Sharon.”

Sam doesn’t look phased by the news that she’s here, or the knowledge that she didn’t contact him. “Well, she’s working right now. I don’t call her when I’m on assignment, either. We like to stay focused.”

He wishes he hadn’t brought it up at all. “Sorry. I just—I don’t know. I worry about you guys.”

“Mind your business, Cap,” Sam says with an affectionate chuckle. “Sharon and I will work it out. We’re grown-ups.”

“I come to you with my problems all the time.”

“That’s because you’re a baby,” Sam replies, grinning. “Like, if we don’t count your time inside the iceberg, I’m way older. So, _mind your business.”_

Steve’s hand stills on the door and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s got his arms around Sam, hugging him just as enthusiastically as Lincoln always does, shamelessly leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder.

“All this stress got you fucked up, Steve,” he laughs, apparently a little surprised by the ardent display of affection being forced upon him. Still, Sam pats his sides and rubs his back, like he’s some kind of oversized lap-dog. “You know, I’m gonna be a dad one of these days,” he says, pushing Steve back so he can look at him. “And you’re going to owe me. Like, my kid’s going to get to bring you to show-and-tell if they want to. Anybody ever takes my kid’s lunch money, it’s Captain America to the rescue, you got that?”

Steve nods emphatically. “Yes, sir.”

Lincoln has already let himself into the bedroom, and Steve hurries down the hall after him. “Bucky, you decent?” he calls out. “Sam’s here.”

“Sam’s seen everything, come on in,” Bucky answers.

Bucky and Lincoln are lying shoulder-to-shoulder, both looking down at Brooklyn, whose head is peeking out from under the bed-sheets. She’s splayed flat against Bucky’s chest, trying to keep her eyes open and drifting closer to failure by the second.

“Look at that food coma,” Sam remarks. “We’re going to put you on a diet, Cookie Monster.”

“ _Cookie Monster_?” Steve practically spits.

Sam tilts his head in challenge. “I’m still trying out nicknames. I _thought_ about ‘Michelin Man,’ but I figured you wouldn’t like that.”

“Lincoln just finished reading Brooklyn her _amazing_ birthday card,” Bucky tells them, knocking his head affectionately against his son’s. “I think she loved it.”

“Well, she probably didn’t understand it,” Lincoln clarifies. “Because she didn’t really do anything.” He glances sidelong at Steve, then at Bucky, snuggling almost too-sweetly against his papa’s side. “Do you think she even really _wants_ the ten dollars?”

Bucky, with a wide grin, leans closer to Lincoln’s ear. “I think you can probably hang onto it, sweetheart.”

“Well, maybe I can just spend it for her, you know? Like, if I just picked out a toy for her, I guess?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Bucky nods. “Smile. Let’s see that gap.”

Lincoln grins ridiculously.

“I can already see a new tooth coming in.”

“Yeah, I played with it a lot with my tongue, and now I think I can kind of feel it,” he slurs, prodding at his gum with his finger all the while. “You’re a lot nicer today, Papa.”

Bucky looks up to Steve and Sam with a guilty laugh. “Yeah, I was mean yesterday, huh?”

“You’re always mean,” Sam corrects him gently. “Give me that baby.”

Bucky, with a some rather unnecessary assistance from his son, passes Brooklyn to Sam’s eager hands. He cradles her her expertly in the crook of his arm, and even through all of his friend’s bravado and humor, Steve can see a certain hypnotic spell fall over him almost instantly—that same mesmerized, nearly-jealous gaze that he gets around Lincoln during those rare moments of quiet, a practiced softness to his touch as he straightens her hat and rocks and bounces her against him, and all the deliberate tenderness of a natural caregiver and a kind spirit.

Steve can hardly wait for the day when Sam finally has his own son or daughter. He wants it more than anybody in the world, and he deserves it a hundred times over. Bucky was apparently entertaining the same thought—although he doesn’t express it exactly how Steve would have hoped.

“Steve, you ought to get him pregnant next.”

“I’d do just about anything in the world for a baby of my own,” Sam says softly, smiling gently down at his goddaughter. “But y’all can absolutely miss me with that.”

* * *

Together, Steve and Lincoln store his handmade birthday card, along with the money, in the box of photographs that lives on their shelf. Steve promises that they’ll sit down together soon and put all the pictures into an album. After all, there’s no longer any reason to make Lincoln wait to see the pictures of his own birth—there’s nothing in there that could possibly shock him now.

Sam doesn’t allow the visit to go on a second past ten minutes. With a little gentle prompting from his godfather, Lincoln hugs both of his parents and says a few sweet goodbyes to Brooklyn, and then Sam ushers him out the door with only a single word parting to Bucky and Steve: “Sleep.”

Steve helps Bucky get to the bathroom.

He refills the water pitcher by the bed. Puts clean pads on the sheets.

He gets Brooklyn’s diaper changed without incident.

Finally, he walks Bucky back to the bedroom, supporting most of his weight with his shoulder, taking small, careful steps, and hand in hand, he eases him down onto the mattress. All the while, he watches Bucky’s face: the weight of a frown descending over his eyes, even as he smiles; the lightness of relief the moment he’s back against the soft pillows; his clean hair, still damp and curling gently as it dries; the outline of his torso beneath his borrowed threadbare t-shirt and all the ways it’s changed in the past day, a map and record of what he’s accomplished.

Pregnancy and labor and a postpartum body shouldn’t look so natural on him. Steve can hardly believe that he’s staring at the same guy who’d looked so striking in that brand new uniform, who cuts such an imposing figure in combat gear. It almost seems unfair that he should still look so beautiful— _more_ beautiful—now, in that baggy old SHIELD tee, with uncombed hair and sleep in his eyes and broken blood vessels at his temples, chest swollen, his belly shrinking by the hour as the stretch marks stay behind, legs and feet bare except for a few fading bruises in the shape of Steve’s own fingers, where he’d pushed against Steve’s steadying grip for so long the night before.

“You okay?”

Bucky’s voice is frayed and rough, but it’s sweet in Steve’s ears. Before he can answer, he’s being pulled down into the bed by his shirt sleeve. Finally, he lets himself collapse against Bucky’s side, and it feels even better than he’d imagined it would. “Yeah, I’m good,” he assures him, smiling because there’s so much more he wants to say, too many thousands of thoughts to form into words, and he knows there won’t be enough time before sleep inevitably overtakes him. “I was just looking at you.”

“Oh, great.” Bucky gives a wry laugh as he glances briefly down at himself, just before Steve pulls the blankets over them both. “Not sure if this is my best look. But I guess it’ll be awhile before I can do anything about it. You better get used to me looking like I fucking melted,” he snorts.

“Listen,” Steve groans, grinning as he grabs Bucky by the shoulder to pull him close, until they’re chest to chest and nose to nose. “If you could _see_ how gorgeous I think you are…”

“I’m gorgeous?” he mumbles through a broad smile.

“Real gorgeous.”

“I feel kind of banged up.”

“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”

“Yeah.”

“You are pretty banged up,” Steve replies faintly. “But you look about as happy as I’ve seen you look.”

“Worried about Ruth. And everything else. But, yeah, I am really happy. Think I like having two kids.”

“Where’re we gonna stop?”

“Three?”

“Five.”

“Three.”

“Seven?”

“Steve, go to sleep,” Bucky begs through tired laughter, tucking his head underneath Steve’s chin.

Steve sighs, and lets his eyes fall shut. “Yeah.”

Winter has cast a deep and silent stillness over the world outside their bedroom window. Inside their warm room, the quiet is only interrupted by Brooklyn’s quick, steady breaths. Sam and Lincoln aren’t far away, and they’re enjoying the rest of their day together. Vision is on his way to Ruth. His family is safe. Everything’s alright. Steve repeats all of this to himself like a mantra and, as if he’d only been waiting for Bucky’s permission, he finally falls asleep.


	6. Who Runs, Who Stays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review all tags before reading. Blanket content warning for this chapter.

Steve doesn’t know what time it when he wakes up. He’s not even sure what _day_ it is.  It’s either early evening or late morning - he doesn’t know how long he slept. The sun has gone behind the heavy winter clouds and the bedside lamp is on, spreading a soft light over the white bedroom walls. Brooklyn is crying. He’s in precisely the same position in which he’d fallen asleep, but Bucky is no longer against him, which means that his face is buried in a pillow. The pillow isn’t exactly dry, either - he must have slept like a corpse. Maybe that’s why this feels more like coming back from the dead than waking up from a nap. He knows exactly what coming back from the dead feels like.

Bucky is awake already, sitting propped up against the headboard while Steve hoards all the pillows, and Brooklyn is squirming unhappily on his shoulder, giving him hell in spite of his best efforts to quiet her down. He keeps trying, though, patting a steady rhythm against her back, whispering sweetly by her ear as she screams over him adamantly.

Bucky glances down when he feels Steve shift. He looks surprised to see him awake. Steve manages a questioning motion in Brooklyn’s direction as he scrubs at his face to coax himself back to consciousness.

“Poked herself in the eye while she was eating,” Bucky explains with a half smile. “She’s pretty upset about it.”

“You picked her up on your own?” Steve slurs, hauling himself up in a guilty panic.

“We’re fine,” Bucky shrugs. “Fed her three times all by myself and just changed her right here on my lap. Had the diaper bag handy. You were _out,_ man.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve frets, groping desperately for his phone.

It’s only a quarter past four. Still Tuesday, January 31st. And by the grace of God, he hasn’t missed a single phone call. He finally lets himself take a deep breath and fall back into the bed to gather his wits.

“I really am okay,” Bucky promises. “I feel about a million times better. Got myself to the bathroom in the wheelchair and everything.”

Steve cringes. “Wish you hadn’t even told me that.”

“I was careful. I’m not exactly at death’s door, here,” Bucky says, moving Brooklyn over to his left shoulder, where she can see Steve a little better. “You tried real hard to cripple me,” he croons sweetly, bouncing his little girl as she answers with shrill screams. He plants a few kisses against her soft hair and Steve gives her his index finger to grip and explore, and her wails dwindle into tired cries within a few seconds. “But you didn’t know who you were dealing with, did you, sugar?” She growls animatedly, prying her eyes open a little wider to check Steve out, and kicks her feet against Bucky’s stomach, almost like she’s trying to make him put her down so she can walk off and go about her day. “Yeah, you messed with the wrong guy, huh?” Bucky lays her down in his lap and gets a hold of her still-kicking feet. She goes right on kicking, lets her head fall gracelessly to the side, and suddenly, she smiles the biggest, most beautiful smile Steve has ever seen.

“Jesus, look at that grin,” Steve gasps through his laughter. He feels like his heart’s going to stop. “And all those chins.”

“Yeah, that’s the face she makes when she’s pooping.” Bucky glances up and makes momentary eye-contact with Steve. He seems completely matter-of-fact and serious. “She’s just concentrating.”

“No, she’s smiling at me. Look. She loves me.”

“Sorry, Steve. She loves pooping.”

Five minutes later, Brooklyn’s diaper is changed and Steve returns from a trip to the bathroom to wash his hands right up to the elbows. He concedes the debate in Bucky and Brooklyn’s favor.

 

Steve must have been on the verge of collapse when he’d gone to sleep. He’d been on the edge of complete exhaustion for so long that he had hardly noticed the nagging feeling of it anymore. Now, after some sleep, he feels absolutely amazing by comparison. Like he could do anything. He dresses himself in some comfortable clothes and takes the apartment by storm. Laundry in the washer, dryer cleared out, bathroom clean, all in a matter of minutes. Once he gets a few things done, they’ll pick up Lincoln from Sam’s apartment, and have a heart to heart about Ruth, and then Ruth will be there and things will either go well between her and Lincoln or they won’t. They can deal with it. Once that’s out of the way, they’ll get to the bottom of the packages she’d been sent, and they’ll deal with that, too.

Steve has only just turned on the kitchen faucet, determined to knock the dishes out before Lincoln is back under his feet, when a timid knock at the door interrupts his plans. It’s barely audible over the sound of running water.

That could only be Ruth.

In which case, he may need to talk to Lincoln on his own, over at Sam’s place, before bringing him home to meet her. He dries his hands and hurries to the door, wishing he’d had a chance to comb his hair and shave, at least, even though he knows Ruth will understand.

He opens the door with a smile on his face, wanting her to know from the moment she walks in how welcome she is. But it’s not Ruth, after all. It’s Lincoln.

Steve thinks nothing of it for a moment. He must have missed them - of course he’d come running home.

But then he gets a look at his son. Stares at him, knowing that this _is_ Lincoln, but hardly recognizing his own little boy. All the pieces that had seemed to fit start to shift out of place one by one. Something isn’t right.

Lincoln’s face is white as a sheet. His eyes are red-rimmed. He’s out of breath. Something has him scared out of his mind, like Steve has never seen him scared, and he’s swaying, constantly fighting for his balance, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his stomach. He looks _sick_ , and Lincoln has never been sick in his life.

“Baby,” Steve breathes. His voice is shaking. He pulls him inside, making a quick survey of the empty, silent hallway, and then shuts the door fast. “Lincoln, look at me, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles.

“Why? What hurts?”

“My - my head and my stomach.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t - I don’t know. I thought it was just from my tooth falling out…”

“Lincoln, _what is wrong_?”

“I heard something scary.”

Steve kneels down, eye level with his son, and takes him by the arms, trying to comfort him and keep him steady all at once. He knows he should try to calm down. Something scared him - that’s normal, he’s five years old. But he’s seen Lincoln scared, and this isn’t it. This looks more like shock. “What did you hear? Where’s Sam?”

He’s asking too many questions at once. He knows it must be overwhelming. But Lincoln barely seems to hear him.

“On the dinosaur movie,” he stutters weakly. “I watched it before so many times, and I heard something scary on the movie that - it was never there before. I _know_ it was never there before!”

“Were there words?”

Lincoln shakes his head frantically. ”No, like music, but not, and--”

“Where’s Sam?”

“I asked if he could hear it but he couldn’t, and then he - later - he just got up and he went in the bathroom and locked it and I knocked and yelled, but he wouldn’t say anything or come out! So I just - I just ran over here.”

Steve thought he’d experienced fear before that moment. He was wrong. He feels his heart stop, and then burst back to life a second later, beating in his ribcage like a firing piston. There’s no solid evidence that this is the same epidemic that the Avengers had been dealing with for a month, but Steve knows that’s _exactly_ what it is. He feels it right in the pit of his stomach. And anywhere there was one case, there were more. One by one, households and apartment complexes and businesses lost their minds. Became violent. And his family is in the same building as some of the most dangerous people on earth.

“Come on.”

He drags Lincoln down the hallway by the wrist and into the bedroom. Bucky must have overheard them talking. He’s wrapping Brooklyn up in a blanket when Steve walks in.

“We’ve got to go. I think--”

“Tell me later,” Bucky replies flatly, accepting Steve’s hand and pulling himself up out of bed.

Steve’s phone rings. He ignores it.

He tosses Bucky a pair of sweatpants and lets him struggle into them on his own. Steve shoves a few items off the bedside table into his pockets - their cell phones and wallets, Bucky’s keys. “Lincoln, go get your shoes on for me, sweetheart,” he instructs, gentling his voice in hopes of keeping Lincoln calm.

Bucky’s phone is ringing. Probably Ruth, but there’s no time. He’ll call her back the moment they’re safe.

Lincoln stands in the doorway, still too dazed to move. “Dad - there were beeping noises for a long time, and then - and then I heard a - a airplane. Airplanes--”

“Lincoln, go and get your--”

Somewhere in the Facility, there’s a crash. It sounds far away - could have come from the medical wing, but it must have been loud. Almost like a car has been driven into the building. Seconds later, as Steve and Bucky listen in tense silence, there’s a violent, reverberant explosion.

The windows rattle. One of Steve’s paintings clatters from the wall to the floor. The floor shivers under their feet as the blastwave ripples through the building.

One of their phones is still ringing.

Bucky and Steve catch each other’s gazes for a moment, briefly stricken with terror before they come to a silent, determined consensus. Bucky rises with gritted teeth, and Steve barely catches the mechanical whir of his arm before he’s swung it at a low section of the wall by the bed. In one motion, he tears away the drywall and plunges his hand in. Pulls out a handgun. Tosses it to Steve. Another handgun. A rifle. Three grenades.

“Chair,” Steve orders.

Bucky must know he won’t be able to run nearly as fast as Steve can push him right now - he doesn’t waste any time arguing. With the guns in his lap and his daughter on his shoulder, he lets Steve wheel him out of the room.

Steve pulls Lincoln along behind him. Shoes or no shoes, they’re leaving.

They make it to the door. Another explosion rocks the building. Dishes rattle in the sink. They make it to the hallway, and two more blasts - _they’re so much louder out here_ \- shake the walls around them. A couple of bulbs burst in the light fixtures overhead, and Lincoln ducks down and stifles a terrified scream, but Steve makes sure he keeps up.

They head toward the elevator - it’s a huge risk, but it’s the fastest way out with Bucky.

Another series of blasts, one after another, and Steve loses count of them. The building groans. Even before they make it to the alcove that houses the elevator and the stairwell access, Steve can see smoke starting to seep out from between the doors.

He stops.

They have to turn around. He’ll have to carry Bucky down the stairs.

The explosions cease just long enough for him to register a different sound - crashes, like he’d heard before, like battering rams and wrecking balls demolishing the south end of the building, punctuated by high-pitched whines that sound like something has grabbed the support beams below them, tearing them apart one at a time. The roar of an animal follows, low and bellowing. It echoes up the elevator shaft and vibrates through the closed doors.

Steve knows what that sound means. Lincoln has never heard it before, but his terrified imagination isn’t far from the mark. “Impact tremors,” he whispers, shaking as he clutches Steve’s hand.

Before they can turn and run, there’s a sharp metallic screech and a deafening snap, and then something like a train car rushing across new-laid tracks. It starts out ear-splittingly loud, then fades out for a moment.

They stumble backward, knocked off balance by the force of the elevator car hitting the ground floor below them. They can hear windows shattering six levels down.

Steve turns and runs.

There’s another roar, closer and clearer now. There’s no mistaking it now; he’d know that sound anywhere. Bruce has lost control.

He makes it halfway down the length of the hall, pulling the wheelchair and his son along behind him as crash after crash blasts up the elevator shaft punctuated by the sound of concrete and metal crumbling and falling. He’s climbing up the shaft. And when he’s on the warpath, he’s fast.

Suddenly, the wheelchair feels too light. Steve stumbles, turns back, sees that Bucky is standing, limping after him, shouting his name. He hadn’t heard.

“Steve - Steve!”

More explosions. The floor begins to incline toward south end of the hall. The abandoned wheelchair rolls toward the elevators. Even if Banner doesn’t find them, they might be looking at a collapse, here. Could come at any second.

Bucky passes Brooklyn off to him, presses her little body tight to his shoulder.

“Go, I can’t run.”

_Shouldn’t I say no?_

_Don’t I love him?_

The floor heaves under his feet, like a boat deck rocking on the sea.

_Can I do this?_

“Bucky--”

The metal doors of the elevator scream as something twists them away.

“Take them down the north stairwell, I’ll cover you.”

_I know. I know they’re more important._

Steve take a few steps backward as he and Bucky get one last look at each other. Steve can feel the strength of their mutual resolution, and he doesn’t question it again. “I’ve got them.”

“Dad - no, no!” Lincoln plants his feet strains against Steve’s hand as it pulls him away from his papa.

“Lincoln, go with Dad.” Bucky begins to walk away, back toward the south end of the hall.

“Papa, _come on!”_

“ _Run!”_ Bucky’s shout barely carries over the building’s death rattles, but Lincoln finally stops fighting and flees.

Steve leaves Bucky in that hallway, and he doesn’t look back. He just runs.

Easiest choice he’s ever made.

He makes it down the first flight. Lincoln has second thoughts, starts to struggle again, but a brutally sharp jerk of his hand is all the warning Steve has to give him. He hears burst of gunfire just above their position. Bucky is fighting.

Second flight. Third. Fourth. Two flights and one sharp turn around a landing constitute a storey of the building. Brooklyn is crying now. Eight more flights.

Lincoln trips, but Steve catches him by the arm. He’s not moving fast enough anyway, and the stairwell is warping, tilting, and the concrete walls are groaning and cracking all around them.

Steve puts his son under his arm and starts jumping stairs, half a flight at a time, clutching Brooklyn so tightly that she barely has enough air in her lungs to cry. He’s almost at the bottom.

The ground floor is ten steps away when the air fills with noise. Concrete breaks. Support beams snap like tree-limbs. Live wires pop. Level by level, the building falls in a cascade behind them and the stairwell pitches to the side.

Steve loses his grip on Lincoln.

In the flashing darkness, he twists his body and slams his back against the exit door, ramming it off its hinges. Hot, burning wind floods the stairwell and whistles like a teakettle through the narrow column. He reaches out. Finds Lincoln’s wrist and pulls him through the doorway so fast that the latches leaves a shallow gash across his boy’s abdomen.

But then they’re out of time. This is how far they’ve made it, and he can’t stop the walls from coming down.

He turns, puts the building at his back. Places himself between the collapse and his daughter because it’s all he can do, and as he turns, he lifts his son off the ground and throws him, just like he’d throw his shield.

Never sees him hit the ground. The Facility disintegrates above him.

Steve throws himself down onto the snow-covered grass in pitch blackness and lets his newborn fall into the wet mud beneath him.

He holds his breath the whole time, and the concrete rains down on him like a shower of meteorites, pummeling him into the soft ground, a thousand hammers falling on one nail.

He _will not_ let it move him.

Uncountable seconds pass, and then it’s over. Everything has come down, and he’s at the bottom of it.

The weight resting on his back is indescribable. Under any other circumstances, his arms and legs would give out.

But Brooklyn is still crying. Loud and clear, right underneath him, coughing to purge her lungs of the dust and stench. She’s alive. _She’s alive._

And so is he, and as long as he’s alive, he’ll keep her alive, too. So, on his hands and knees, he accepts the weight of the building and thanks God for every pound of it that hadn’t struck his little girl.

He’s not waiting. He’s not counting the minutes or telling himself _just a little longer._ He holds the weight and he’ll hold it for the rest of his life, if that’s what it takes. He shuts his eyes and listens to his daughter crying, picturing the way she’d cried on Bucky’s shoulder earlier, holding onto that memory, matching it to the sound, letting it play over and over again and light up the dark. He wishes he could move, but his hands have sunk down into the soft earth. If he could move, he’d give her his finger to hold onto again. She had liked that.

  
  


Bucky stops walking like he’s worried about tearing his stitches - they’re not going to matter, now. He’s not going to have more children: he enters combat with the knowledge that he will be required to die in combat. Prioritizing self-preservation assures failure. The part of his brain that feels physical pain shuts off entirely.

This state of mind is familiar to him. No matter what measures he takes to exorcise the Soldier, he always seems to be standing at the ready, prepared to kill and die; waiting, as if still in stasis, to be called out to the fight.

He holds the rifle high, hugging the wall to his right, and works his way forward.

There’s an impact and a sharp, splintering crack somewhere to his left - Sam has shouldered his way through his jammed door. He doesn’t look competent - face is twisted, eyes are cloudy and dazed, but there isn’t time to worry about the state of his mind right now. His hands work. He can fire a gun. “Code Green. Building’s coming down,” he shouts, imparting all the information succinctly, and throws him the Glock.

That’s all the time he has. Bruce tears through the communal kitchen within the next second, and all he can do is brace his feet against the floor and shoot. Round after round after round.

Aim for the eyes.

Just slow him down.

That’s the only goal.

Hopefully, a few bullets to the face will make this personal to the Hulk, and he’ll stay focused on the shooter and not notice the swinging door at the other end of the hall. Just give him somewhere to channel all that rage.

That tactic keeps the Hulk at bay for three or four seconds, just long enough for Steve to make it off the sixth floor with the kids.

With his first initiative accomplished, Bucky’s fast-forming defense strategy has earned a second stage. He’s ensured his family’s immediate escape, now he can keep the Hulk from pursuing them. But this opponent is too quick and too big to fight alone; he’ll need help. Sam’s going to have to be willing to die, too.

“Wilson, get outta here!” he shouts, testing his partner’s intentions. He shoots out a bank of lights over the Hulk’s head to buy Sam another second to consider his options.

“No!”

Good. He doesn’t mind dying. That means he’s willing to be used. “Take his right - get to the elevator.”

He’s never fought the Hulk before, but he and Sam have taken on tanks together. Even considering that they’re both compromised, they default to a familiar strategy with no discussion and rely on their past experience working in tandem to anticipate one another’s movements now.

They charge down the hall as Banner tears the kitchen island out of the floor and flings it, narrowly missing them as they switch sides and cross close in front of their opponent. Sam attacks low as Bucky shoots high, showering Banner with bullets. Sam makes it to the alcove by the elevators.

To regroup with Sam, he’ll have to engage the Hulk in close quarters and force his way past him in the small space, relying on his smaller stature and speed.

He arms a grenade and waits, then tosses it toward the ceiling and charges forward. It detonates in time to blind Banner and allow Bucky to make it just past him, arming a second as he ducks and weaves. He throws it over his shoulder, making Banner swat at the empty space in front of him as Bucky retreats, avoiding the arc of those massive fists. But the blast was too close - it knocks him off balance, and for a split second, he stumbles. The Hulk’s next swing is well-aimed and certain, and catches Bucky full-force across the back.

He hits the wall hard enough to leave a hole in it. He can hardly think, but it occurs to him to be shocked that he didn’t go all the way _through_ it. The impact has stunned and immobilized him, and he resigns himself to a hard, swift death.

Gunfire erupts behind him as he crumples to the floor. Sam’s shooting blind from around the corner. It gives Bucky just enough of a reprieve to regain his vision, see the exposed gas line that had once connected to the kitchen island stove, and arm his last grenade.

“Elevator, now,” he rasps.

Thankfully, Sam hears him.

He throws grenade toward the twisted copper pipes, rolls to the right, reaches the alcove and makes a jump for the open shaft just as the old communal kitchen detonates in a brilliant flash of light.

Sam has caught the ledge on the opposite side of the shaft, two floors down, and he’s clinging there by his forearms. Bucky is still clutching his rifle and catches the slender hold with only his prosthetic hand, and he feels the force of the impact reverberate through his skeleton.

He hoists the rifle up to the ledge and pulls himself up, feeling something dripping down from the bottoms of his feet. He’s bleeding bad.

He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the elevator doors and forces them open, climbs up, and then pulls Sam after him. They’re out of the north wing now, inside the smoke-filled hallway that leads to medical and the labs

They stop. There’s a noise like the low horn of a departing ship, then a deep, resounding groan and deafening static. They see the beams snapping in the elevator shaft. The north wing has finally met its end, and it’s coming down ten feet away. Could take the medical wing down with it.

Sam has to pull Bucky away as the shaft begins to belch hot, acrid dust. He’s trying to count the seconds that he’d kept Banner occupied. The whole fight couldn’t have lasted a _minute._ Or is his mind playing tricks on him? Had he given them enough time? God - _God, did they get out?_

Sam is shouting at him to run, keep running, run faster as the pyroclastic cloud chases at their heels. But they’re heading into thicker smoke and hotter air. The labs on the third floor must be burning just below them. Sam skids to a startled halt as he takes a few steps onto a section of floor that’s almost burnt through. It splinters under their feet as they backtrack and within seconds, the heat of the dust cloud envelopes them, and they’re left in total, airless darkness.

They’ve run as far as their luck allows. There’s no oxygen behind them and fire erupting just ahead, and while Bucky might survive holding his breath and going back in search of an exit, Sam wouldn’t make it by a long shot and neither one of them could hope to make it out navigating the corridors blind.

And there’s no guarantee that the Hulk went down under the building. Bucky doesn’t even know if a building that size could hold him.

Just as Bucky’s beginning to doubt their escape, Banner makes it known that he’s far from finished. A long, furious howl like a hunting call spills out of the abyss at the other end of the pitch-dark hallway. Bucky can hear his fingers driving into the concrete as he scales the crumbling elevator shaft hand over hand.

He knows exactly which way they ran.

He stops on their floor and falls silent for a few chilling moments. Bucky can _feel_ him listening.

Then, once he’s sure he has them cornered, he roars with a fury that Bucky’s never experienced firsthand. Bruce’s shuddering description of it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

That guttural victory-cry is the last warning they’re afforded before the Hulk’s footfalls make the weakened floors shudder. His advance is slow at first - he can’t see any more than they can through the superheated dust - but they’re quickening steadily. Bucky guesses they have ten or eleven seconds to make a way out before he finds them.

He shuts his eyes and forces himself to abandon every thought beyond _escape._ Calls up a map, a three-dimensional blueprint of the Facility.

Landing pad. There’s a _landing pad_ on the east wall of medical for emergencies. On the southern end of the building, about sixty feet wide, jutting off from the second floor. They might be directly over it. If they’re not, he’ll take his chances with the four-storey fall.

He throws himself toward the wall on his right, groping across its surface until his fingers touch the dust-coated glass of a narrow floor-to-ceiling window. Not a perfect plan, but good enough; they might even survive.

He presses the buttstock of his M4 into Sam’s shoulder. “Shoot him. Let him know where we are.”

Sam takes it from him too slowly. _“What?”_

“Shoot! Now!”

And that galvanizes Sam into action again. He squeezes the trigger relentlessly, spraying the width of the hallway with rounds. The Hulk’s roar is enraged and triumphant. Sure enough, he’s on the attack now, and the barrage of gunfire isn’t doing anything to slow him down.

Bullets would have ricocheted off the reinforced glass, but vibranium won’t. Bucky’s fist connects with the window pane. Again - this time, with every ounce of desperate strength left in his body. Strikes it a third time in quick succession and it crunches, splinters, _still_ doesn’t break. Banner’s right on top of them now and he’s out of time. He grabs Sam by the arm and lets out something like a warcry and throws his metal shoulder against the thick glass with all his weight and Sam’s behind it.

_And it breaks._

Banner converges on the place where they had been standing, and the floor disintegrates and swallows him in an explosion of heat and flying embers. But Bucky and Sam are already in freefall.

They hit the edge of the helipad hard, but not as hard as they would have hit the frozen ground two storeys below.

Sam is injured and stunned from the fall, probably dizzy from the oxygen-deprivation, but he’s the first one back on his feet. “Come on,” he chokes out. His voice is broken and weak from the dust and smoke clinging inside his lungs and throat. He takes Bucky by the shoulder and hauls him up, supporting them both on his own shaking legs. “Come on!”

In spite of the adrenaline buzzing in his head, Bucky can feel that he’s too short of breath. Listless. Colder than he should be, even considering the shock of winter air. He knows he’s losing blood. He leaves red tracks and warm, round droplets in the snow as Sam leads him away.

The grated metal stairs are coated with ice, but they rush heedlessly down them toward the open expanse of lawn and the treeline two hundred yards in the distance, both expecting to hear the thunderous voice of the Hulk at their backs any second as he tears his way out of the building. They race across the grounds, forcing their bare feet through the deep snow and sharp ice, ready to drop and take cover the moment Banner demolishes the east wall.

They make it fifty yards away from the Facility before they hear him again - but something about that long, low wail forces Bucky to slow down.

He hesitates. Listens. Looks back.

All that mindless rage is gone. The deep, rasping cry rattling the panes of glass on the ground floor is different - sad, _haunting._ He turns away from the cover of the forest, ignoring Sam’s pleas to continue on, get to the relative safety of the woods, find a place to hide.

Bucky doesn’t know what he’s thinking. He trudges back toward the Facility, pressing on faster and faster as he circles around to the other side of the helipad. He knows Sam is right, but another weak, mournful howl rings out over the deafening white noise of the blaze. He can’t make himself leave.

That’s _Bruce._ No matter what, that’s still Bruce.

The tall windows of the ground floor labs are somehow still holding out against the tremendous heat and pressure gathering inside the building. Where the glass hasn’t turned black from the smoke accumulation, Bucky can see blinding, flashing glimpses of the inferno Banner had plummeted into. There are intermittent hisses followed by ear-splitting explosions, like tin cans bursting, threatening the integrity of the glass.

He watches the dark windows through the heat-warped air until his eyes adjust to the flickering, uneven light. FInally, he can discern the massive outline of the the Hulk’s crumpled body silhouetted against the bright white and orange flames consuming the lab.

He’s lying down, curled on his side with his head tucked into the cradle of his immense arms, writhing and shaking with agony. Crippled, wounded and restless, but somehow eerily _calm._

He’s determined. Resolute. He doesn’t get up. Doesn’t struggle or run. Banner is lying in the belly of that fire, curled up like a man crying himself to sleep in his bed.

“Bruce!” he calls out. He knows exactly how futile it is, and he knows he has to try all the same. “Bruce, get up! _Get up!”_ he begs, shouts softening to frustrated prayers hissing through his gritted teeth. “Come on, Banner, _get up.”_

He tries to force himself to move closer to the lethally hot glass and manages to beat his fist against the pane twice, screaming Bruce’s name only once before his brain shuts off and he stumbles backward, mindlessly escaping the burning air radiating off the window. He looks back toward Sam, but Sam is fixated on the scene with the same crippling terror, and Bucky only sees his own helplessness reflected back at him.

Banner’s groan is soft this time, like an animal whimpering for a mercy kill.

“Bruce, get out of there! Get out, come on, get out, _get out!”_ He begs until he can’t form words anymore, and all he can do is scream at the top of his lungs, senseless and dumb, unable to help and incapable of looking away, hysterical with fury because _everything_ has fallen apart too fast to believe.

“Move back!”

The order strikes Bucky like a spark as it rends through the cold air behind him. The gust of wind and shower of snow as Thor lands shocks his paralyzed limbs back to life, and he throws himself away from the building and covers his face with his metal arm just as Thor drives his shoulder through the Facility’s dense wall.

Heat and fire burst out of the breach, spewing debris and glass-shards. Bucky and Sam stumble backward as fast as they can, ducking low as the cold air feeds the blaze with fresh oxygen. Bucky counts the long seconds, waiting, caught between hope and total disbelief, until Thor emerges from the fire, face blackened with ash but seemingly unhurt, tearing the wall down with one arm and with the other, dragging the Hulk’s motionless body out onto the snow.

Banner is still conscious, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t seem to hear Thor’s shouts or feel himself being shaken.

Thor gives up and turns back toward the Facility, taking in the magnitude of the destruction before turning back to Bucky and Sam, heartbroken. Just as lost as they are.

“What happened?”

Sam doesn’t have an answer, and Bucky can’t form one. Everything sounds like he’s underwater. He shakes his head weakly. “I don’t know.”

“Barnes, your children--”

“With Steve.” His mouth goes dry. His ears ring.

“Did they escape? Where -- others? -- did this?”

Bucky is still fighting to understand each question, struggling to hear over the sound of rushing water and swinging church bells, when he realizes he can’t see Thor or Sam or the Facility anymore - just the cloudy evening sky above him. He must have fallen. The ground feels soft under his back as the numbness of shock and blood-loss envelopes him like a warm, heavy blanket.

_It’s alright,_ he tells himself. Thoughts and words are fluttering through his brain rapid-fire, startled birds fleeing a tree. _We both knew this was going to happen, he won’t hate me for it. I know he made it out with them, I know they’re safe. They're gonna be alright._ Names drift down like falling feathers whispering past his ear. _Steve. Sam. Brooklyn. Lincoln._

Night seems to fall early.


	7. Triple Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paths are beginning to cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's been a while since this was originally posted, but I only recently realized I had never shared it through AO3. A very awesome person - nomad-whitewolf-love on Tumblr - made an [AMAZING VIDEO TRAILER FOR THE SIMPLE LIFE](https://howler32557038.tumblr.com/post/179211336431/nomad-whitewolf-love-a-short-video-trailer-of) that I thought you guys might enjoy. If you're still on Tumblr and you're enjoying this series, give this person some well-deserved notes!

An absent thought floats through Steve’s mind as he walks — _the forest looks just like a photograph._ Like what he still thinks of as a _real_ photograph, even after years of acclimating himself to the brilliant digital colors of the future: high-contrast black and white, printed in blots of ink that would stain his fingers purple. Winter has spared no color except the evergreens and now that night has fallen, even those are reduced to dark silhouettes against the featureless, ash-grey sky, just like all the other dead trees.

He and Tony are retracing Steve’s singular set of tracks through the snow, hurrying toward the only blot of color left in the world — the smoke-dampened orange glow of the fire that they had only just escaped that same hour.

In the absence of any real sense of hope, Steve consoles himself with a fast pace and ignores the bruised muscles in his back and the sharp, electric ache in his wrists and knees. His speed makes no allowances for Tony’s injuries, either. If Tony can’t keep up, Steve will go alone.

They’ve nearly reached the edge of the woods before Tony breaks their mutual silence. Steve is surprised he had lasted that long but then again, three gunshot wounds would quiet anybody down. He had appreciated the lack of conversation. He doesn’t want to talk right now, because there’s nothing to say; they’ve set out to either find their loved ones or recover their bodies — a task which doesn’t call for words.

“What’s the plan with Carter?”

“Don’t have one,” Steve answers. They had left her back at the bunker, isolated inside the panic room with water and instructions to bang on the door if she needed anything from Ruth. She _needs_ oxygen and IV fluids and a dozen other medical interventions that they can’t currently give her. She sure as hell doesn’t need to be locked up and lying on a concrete floor in her current state, but Steve hadn’t allowed himself any second thoughts. If she had been infected, she had to be kept separate from his children. Even if Bruce is right and it can’t be passed on through contact, there was still her spell of violence to consider. She had shot Tony at point blank range. Three times, while looking him right in the eye. Steve can’t bring himself to trust her after that, not around her godchildren or anyone else.

“Listen, Steve — I know you’re on the warpath right now, but I think we should go back and talk to her. We gotta to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Tony, she can’t breathe well enough to talk—”

“Fine. We’ll do it when we get back. Or I will. You want to join me, or sit that one out?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“She claims that she did _all of this_. And you don’t want to hear the rest of that story? Gimme something here, Cap—”

“It can wait.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s not going to be an interrogation, Tony.”

“Steve, look—I know you care about her. Alright? You want to give her time, but we need to know why she thinks she’s responsible.”

“People say that stuff after they get hit with this,” Steve reasons, but his words sound just as hollow to him as they do to Tony. “They get real low. They feel guilty, blame themselves for everything. We’ll talk to her once she shakes it.”

“That didn’t sound like incoherent suicidal rambling. Okay, I _had_ this. She’s clear of the symptoms. She is fucking lucid.”

“I said it can _wait_.”

“You don’t call that kind of shot on your own. The whole fucking _world_ is gonna burn before we—"

Steve rounds on him with a thousand harsh words on the tip of his tongue and enough venom in his eyes to silence Tony’s half-formed argument, but then he remembers his objective, faces front, and keeps on walking. He can feel Tony’s frustration gathering like a cloud behind him, hot and charged, waiting for the explanation that he’s owed. Steve gives it to him. “I don’t care how this happened. Or who did it,” he says tightly, watching the column of dark smoke rising from the center of the Facility, a black monolith against the pale, snow-heavy clouds filling the night sky. “I’m not interrogating her. It’s done. I’m doing one more sweep of the building and the grounds, and then I’m taking my kids and getting them someplace safe.”

“Just gonna let this one play out, huh?” He almost sounds like he knew that was coming.

Steve knows his silence will be all the confirmation Tony needs. He doesn’t bother to contradict the assumption.

Tony spares him any further protestations for a moment after that admission. Steve guesses he’s taking a second to process the implications. His children are his only priority: they come before the rest of the world; they come before his teammates; and if this final search doesn’t turn up any good news, they come before Bucky, too. No matter how badly Tony needs him, he’s not staying.

“You really think anywhere’s going to be safe?” Tony asks earnestly. Steve can hear him struggling to keep his tone gentle. “If we just...let this go?”

 _No, I don’t. I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified._ “I’ll figure something out.”

Tony’s disappointment weighs heavily on him, dragging at his heels as he strides over the grounds, weaving through the debris in search of tracks.

Finally, he catches the sound of a sigh a few feet behind him, barely audible over the sharp wind. Steve can hear Tony’s resignation even before he speaks. “Well, I guess that’s what I’ve been asking you to do for the last five years. Put your family first. I really shouldn’t complain, huh?” His laughter is empty and grim.

He knows just how much Tony is leaving unsaid. They haven’t found any other members of the team yet — they both recognize that they might be the only ones left. And if Steve runs now, if he takes his kids and disappears, then Tony will have to fight this war alone. And Steve knows that he’ll do it, even if he doesn’t have the barest chance of winning, even if Steve leaves when he needs him the most. He could remind Steve of all this pretty easily, but he’s sparing him the pain and guilt of actually hearing him say it.

“How’s Lincoln?” Tony’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. Hesitant. He’s done arguing, and he’s taking the loss more gracefully than Steve is taking his win.

Steve has to hold his breath for a few seconds, so he doesn’t bite back with _How do you think?_ When he opens his mouth to answer, he stalls again because he doesn’t _know._ Not really. Hadn’t taken the time to ask, yet. “Concussion. Couple of cuts. He’ll be okay.”

“Brooklyn…?”

“Breathed in a lot of dust. Cold. She’s sleeping it off.” Steve feels his mouth twist bitterly. The thought of that dust in his newborn’s lungs, the sound of her frantic coughs and halting, quick breaths makes him wish for ten minutes alone with whoever did this. He’d _drown_ the fucker. Cover their nose and pour that concrete dust right down their throat.

“Well. This suit was the closest thing when Carter started shooting ‘cause Banner took my good one away when he quarantined me. Should hold up alright in the fire for a few minutes. I’m gonna run in and grab a nanite housing unit. Bleeding Edge can handle heat a little better.”

“Search the North Wing and medical. I’ll work out here.”

“Yeah,” Tony replies wearily, and lets his course diverge slowly from Steve’s sweep of the perimeter as he closes in on the west hangar doors. Steve listens to the sound of his footsteps dragging through the snow. They fade out until he knows Tony has disappeared back into the Facility and the fire.

Without Tony at his heels watching his six, fatigue overtakes Steve in seconds, like an enemy that had been waiting to catch him alone. He hadn’t realized how much easier this was with a partner. The rivulets of sweat trailing down to the small of his back have soaked into his t-shirt where it clings to his skin, cold and damp. The hems of his sweatpants are caked with snow and frozen mud, which seeps into his tennis shoes with every step he takes and melts against his sockless feet.

All the while, Bucky’s name flashes in his head like a neon sign, bright red against white, blaring louder than the Facility’s still-screaming evac sirens. And Tony’s voice is no longer there to distract him. His only consolation is the familiarity of the shield strapped to his left arm.

He shouldn’t have talked to Tony like that. Tony might be the only friend he’s got left — and he’s a good friend. He’s got to be thinking about Pepper. Wondering if she’s alive. He must be terrified. And that selfless bastard hadn’t even mentioned her. Steve hadn’t bothered to ask about her, either.

He doesn’t look at the Facility. His eyes shift from the intact wall on his right and the forest eight hundred yards to his left, but he doesn’t look at his home. Tony is searching the inside so that he doesn’t have to see the fire and the slowly crumbling ceilings and the dark, broken windows. Tony took on that burden even though he built that place. Even though it was his home, too.

Steve turns eastward, keeping the main complex on his right. Despite the fact that he’s now painfully aware of his own selfishness and weakness and humbled by Tony’s strength, he keeps his eyes to the ground, searching for tracks other than his own. He knows that if he raises his eyes now, he’ll see the north wing — split, gutted, and messy like a skull broken open by heavy artillery. Tony will search there. He’ll be more thorough than Steve was. He won’t balk at the thought of turning over a section of wall to look for a body beneath it. He can sift through the rubble and ash, and he can be the one to find the charred remains of a loved one. Because it has to be done, and Steve can’t do it. He’s too afraid to find Bucky there.

Just as he’s trying to gather the last of his hope to see him through the final search effort, every thought dissolves. Only a moment ago, he had rounded the northeast corner. He’s been moving south along the eastern wall, nearly choking on the opaque walls of smoke spilling out of what used to be the medical wing. A few feet in front of him—unless that last reserve of hope has driven him to hallucinate—there are tracks.

He takes in everything at once, eyes searching feverishly and embellishing every minuscule sign left in the deepening snow with cinematic detail as he stumbles backward to get a better view of the building, following the line of prints back to their point of origin.

The helipad.

That’s where they started. He follows the tracks backward, up the stairs that climb the helipad’s outer wall. The grated metal of the steps didn’t preserve much detail, but he thinks there were two sets. He reaches the top and finds more answers — halfway between the landing zone and the building there are deep marks in the snow. Crystals of glass trailing back toward the wall of the medical wing. Blood, seeping into the white snow. Little red droplets melting and spreading out like blooming flower petals around one of the body-sized imprints. Steve looks up. He can see the broken window just overhead.

If Bucky had managed to get past Bruce, the elevator shaft would have been his only escape route. That elevator only let out onto the residential floors and the medical wing. If he made it out, that’s where he would have run. Steve can’t be sure, given the continuing snowfall, but he thinks one set of tracks had been left by bare feet.

Bucky hadn’t grabbed his shoes on the way out.

He doesn’t waste time on the slick stairs — he jumps down into the snow, rolling to soften the landing, and runs alongside the tracks, dragging in frantic gasps of the cold air and smoke. He follows them a hundred yards out onto the lawn before they’re gone.

At his back, the eastern wall of the Facility is destroyed. The smoke and sparks pouring from the hole obscure the full extent of the damage. Leading away from that point, a new kind of trail begins — wide and flat, like someone had driven a snow plow right out of the Facility and over the grounds. Whatever it was, it took all of the other tracks with it, packing the snow down tight. All the other signs are gone. Steve can see the strange path cutting a straight line toward the woods, then turning sharply before it, too, disappears.

Steve thinks about the blood and glass back on the helipad, the lone broken window, those barefoot prints. He follows the wide pathway at a run into the treeline, because he’s going to find Bucky and Sam alive at the other end of it. He _knows_ he will.

 _If Sam and Bucky are gone, there will be enough pain later. There’s no reason to make himself feel the blow too soon._ For now, all he has is what Lincoln had given him: hope and blind determination. So he searches out broken branches and deep divots in the frozen mud and, _knowing_ he won’t lose the trail in the dark, he disappears into the trees along with it.

* * *

The first time Bucky wakes up, he doesn’t see anything. Nothing real, anyway. Whiteness. Movement. His head feels heavy, like he’s upside down. Someone is carrying him. He faints again.

The second time, he drinks some water. He’s not sure who puts the bottle to his lips, but he doesn’t question it. His mouth feels dry and burnt and everything tastes like fire. His throat hurts. The water helps.

The third time he wakes up, he’s sure he’s just been wiped. Throbbing temples. A light, nervous sensation in the pit of his stomach. Hunger pangs so bad they make him sick. He can’t do much, but he manages to lean to his left just before he vomits.

That wakes him up — coughing, choking on all the dust he’d breathed inside the Facility, the way that every cough and dry-heave _hurts_ , aching deep in his back and pelvis. Finally, he opens his eyes. He remembers everything except how he got here, leaned up against this old tree like a ragdoll, wrapped in the the warmest, sweetest-smelling blanket in the world.

“Stay — I’ll check on him—"

That’s Thor’s voice, somewhere to his right. Bucky pushes himself up just as Thor reaches him and helps him lie back against the broad trunk of the tree.

“Don’t move — don’t try, yet,” Thor instructs softly. Bucky looks around anyway, straining against the impossibly strong hands holding his shoulders in place. Sam is seated a few feet away, holding a strip of cloth to the side of his head. There’s blood soaking through. He doesn’t look good — he’s shivering hard, and there’s a too-familiar look in his eyes that Bucky had seen on a thousand soldiers back in Europe. Like he can’t quite see the world around him, like there’s something playing on a loop in his mind’s eye, transfixing him. Still, he tries to fight it off and meet Bucky’s eyes for a moment.

“Sam?”

“Yeah.”

_Doesn’t even sound like Sam’s voice. He took a bad hit._

Further away, on the other side of the clearing, sits Bruce. But _not_ Bruce — the Hulk. Not fighting, not hunting, not enraged or roaring or tearing down the trees. Just sitting, slumped over, head hanging low, twisting his massive face into a frown that looks like it could become tears at any moment. He looks sad and hurt and utterly childlike. Weak, defenseless, broken.

Thor tilts his head, trying to catch Bucky’s nervously wandering eyes. “How do you feel?”

“I’m...alright,” he breathes. It’s almost too unbelievable to say. “What’s…?”

“The sickness spread,” Thor states, with a note of resignation in his voice that tells Bucky that even Thor doesn’t yet know exactly what that means. “Wilson was struck with it. So was Hulk. But...they’re beginning to recover.” He looks to Sam for confirmation. Sam hesitates for a moment and then, with great effort, he nods. “Were you affected?”

Bucky is already shaking his head by the time Thor begins his question — he had seen the look of concern in his eyes. “No—no. I was just — I was with Brooklyn and Lincoln came home and I heard — I heard him talking to Steve. Sounded so scared — We made it out to the hallway but the building started to come down.”

“Did they…?” Thor begins to ask, then seems to think better of it. “He got them out safely.”

But Bucky doesn’t know. He keeps Thor’s words in his mind, though, and lets them sink in deep until he almost believes them without question. “Sam got out of his apartment about the same time Banner got to our floor and — and then we just ran. He fell through the floor in the medical wing — got stuck in the labs, just wouldn’t move—"

“Do you know who did this?”

Bucky stems the constant flow of half-coherent words pouring out of him as he tries, for his own sake, to piece everything back together, and shakes his head. On the other side of the clearing, he hears the Hulk let out a low, groaning sigh.

They all turn toward him, worried that he might go on the attack again, but he’s hunched over further. The frown on his face has deepened. Bucky watches as he taps two fingers against his chest, over and over, rocking as if he’s trying to console himself. Finally, Bucky realizes that he’s trying to answer Thor’s question. He thinks he’s responsible for the collapse. He’s in agony over it.

Sam, who’s barely recovered more than Bruce has, struggles to his feet. Bucky watches in fearful, awed silence as he crosses the clearing, tired and limping, and sits down right beside Banner. He still has that faraway look in his eyes—that shell-shocked blankness—but he reaches up over his head and places one hand on Banner’s knee. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just like he’s back at the VA with a vet in crisis, or when he was delivering Brooklyn last night — no matter what Sam’s going through, he doesn’t let another person hurt alone. The Hulk doesn’t show any aggression toward him, but Bucky thinks he hears him starting to breathe a little easier.

Bucky doesn’t know if his family made it out alive or not. Sam is probably wondering the same thing, and worrying about Sharon, too.

But Bucky has a brief moment of clarity that flashes like a little candle in the midst of all his grief — at least his best friend made it out. God forbid, if they both lost everything today, maybe they’ll be able to find a way to survive if they lean on each other. At least long enough to kill whoever did this.

In spite of Thor’s insistent hands and disapproving grimace, Bucky braces himself against the tree and stands. His back and pelvis feel broken — he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t move a little. He takes one cautious step forward, testing his legs.

Thankfully, Thor catches him before he hits the ground. Bucky endures the knowing, reproachful look he gives him with a nod and silently admits what Thor had already guessed: he can’t walk. He lets Thor lower him back to his seat, wrapping the blanket tighter around him. “I think I bled on your cape,” he sighs, realizing what he’s wearing only after he notices Thor’s bare arms.

“It’s alright,” he smiles. “It’s had blood on it many times. And worse things. Excrement, bile — from hell-beasts and all a manner of demons, and—" He shuts his mouth suddenly, forcing himself to be silent, and pats Bucky’s shoulders bracingly. “Anyway. It’s red.”

So he can’t walk at all, now. That means he can’t go to the bunker. If Steve and the kids made it out, that’s the first place they’ll go. Hopefully, they’re waiting for him there. But he can’t make the trip himself — maybe he could have _before_ the fight, but after being thrown into a solid concrete wall by the Hulk and that rough landing on the helipad, he’s looking at more than the usual postpartum bleeding. He’s busted through _a lot_ of stitches, and Banner doesn’t exactly look fit to practice medicine at the moment.

Thor can’t leave — if Banner gets aggressive again, he’s the only one who can keep him under control. Thor’s presence seems to calm him down, anyway.

“Sam?”

A few seconds pass before Sam even looks up. He’s in no state to go right now — not so soon after that fight, not while he’s still recovering whatever mind-altering attack he’d suffered. But there is no one else.

Sam gives Banner a hard pat on the knee and then uses it to pull himself up. Bucky has to hold his breath, watching him interact with him like that, but Banner has apparently decided that Sam is someone he can trust.

Sam drags the bloodied strip of cloth over the cut on his head, cleaning it up as well as he can, wincing at the sting, and then stuffs it into his back pocket as if to say he’s ready to press on.

“I got a bunker just northwest of here.”

Sam nods.

“I think that’s where Steve might have taken the kids. They’ll have water, food, supplies—"

“Go see if they made it?” Sam sounds grim, like he’s prepared to arrive and find it empty. Still, he memorizes the directions that Bucky gives him. He repeats back the procedure for opening it up and not tripping the perimeter alarms, and where to find the water and the medical supplies. Just in case there’s no one there.

“Take care, Sam,” Thor advises him.

Sam puts one of Bucky’s handguns in his back pocket with the bloodied cloth. Bucky shrugs off the cloak, and with a pleading glance toward Thor, he holds it out to his friend. Sam shakes his head, but Thor is siding with Bucky. He wraps it around Sam’s shoulders wordlessly, and Sam seems to know that he’s not allowed to decline. Thor smiles. “It looks better on you.”

As Sam crosses the clearing, pointed northwest to cut across the grounds and head for the lakeside, Banner groans high in his throat. It’s a pitiful, sad sound, and Sam seems to understand it instantly. He lays his hand on Banner’s hunched back as he passes. “I’ll be back in a minute. It’s okay.”

With Sam gone, the three of them settle into anxious silence. The quiet rustle of leaves and snapping twigs as Banner rocks to keep himself calm are the only sounds in the forest.

“He took to Sam much faster than he took to me,” Thor laughs softly, like he’s been searching for something to make idle conversation about. Steve had always warned Bucky that Thor liked to talk.

“Sam is...Sam’s a good guy,” Bucky remarks faintly. “I trusted him, too. Before I trusted anybody else.” He wonders briefly if he’s ever said those words to Sam. He _should._

“Still, I think it’s best that Sam went to find your husband and I stayed. At least until...well. Until this passes.”

“We’re not married yet,” Bucky says, almost reflexively. Thor glances over at him, eyes full of sympathy. Apology. “He asked me. Four and half years ago.” Thor lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” Bucky’s voice suddenly feels too unsteady to continue, but Thor pulls him a little closer, just to give him something to lean on besides the rough tree bark, and Bucky has no choice but to let himself fall against him. His resolve seems to crumble along with his body. “I don’t — goddamn it — I don’t care. I just want—I don’t fucking care, I just want my kids. I just want to see my kids.”

Bucky loses what little coherence he’d been clinging to. He’s not sure what he says for the next few minutes — just words, all desperate, all panicked and hysterical. He wants to feel Lincoln’s chin digging into his shoulder as he carries him to bed. He wants to feel Brooklyn’s body against his aching chest and hear her crying. He’d trade a hundred futures with Steve to have his son and daughter in his arms right now. But he’s trapped here — crippled — with none of it.

Thor says nothing. He lets Bucky cry until the futility of _crying_ sinks in, and silence descends once again.

“We’ll find the ones who did this,” he promises. His voice is low. Dangerous. Bucky takes a sense of surety from it that he had desperately needed. “And we will kill them.” He looks down at Bucky appraisingly, like he’s issuing a challenge. “Steve told me you could fight.”

Bucky drags his palm over his face, wiping away tears only to find his fingers coated with wet ash and dust. He’s glad he can’t see himself. “Yeah.”

Thor’s arm closes tighter over his shoulders for a moment, aggressive and bracing. “Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll fight. And you’ll find the bastards, and you’ll make them suffer.”

The joyless smile on Thor’s face which accompanies that declaration almost makes Bucky want to laugh. Because he’s right — when there’s _nothing_ else to live for, there’s still revenge. Maybe it’s not right. God knows, it’s not how he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life, however long that is, but it’s better than nothing.

And he _is_ ready to kill again. Letting go of all the pretenses, stopping the charade, giving up on pretending he’s anything but a soldier — in a way, it seems like it’ll be a relief. “Yeah. I will.”

“And I’ll—" Thor had sounded like he was on the verge of making some excited promise, continuing their fantasy in an effort to keep Bucky together, but he stops. Holds his breath and goes still. He raises his his head to peer through the darkness across the clearing at Banner.

Bucky raises his head, suddenly fighting past all the fog of grief and blood loss and forcing himself into high-alert. The Hulk’s body is rigid — he’s sitting up, listening, no longer rocking or whining. Quiet. Slowly, he lowers his massive head, shoulders tense, as if he’s ready to spring up at any second.

He’s hunting again. He hears something, or smells it, and he doesn’t like it.

Bucky waits. He wants to stay still, but instinct takes over and he reaches out to his right and, careful not to attract Banner’s attention, he finds the M4 that he’d handed off to Sam and sets it in his lap. He keeps one finger close to the trigger and a hand on the pistol grip.

Suddenly, Banner turns his bright gaze toward them. Bucky’s hands jump against the gun, ready to lift it and fire, but Banner doesn’t attack them.

He’s _grinning._

Bucky only sees his bared teeth in a momentary flash before he springs up and takes off like a shot through the thick trees, heedlessly breaking branches and trampling saplings, pursuing something — something that he _wants._

“No.” Thor’s growl expresses more than fear or aggravation — Bucky can hear disbelief in his voice. Surprise. Like he _knows_ what the Hulk went after. Without another word, he follows Banner into the woods at a run, leaving Bucky alone in the clearing, clutching his gun in the dark.

Minutes pass.

The commotion of Banner’s escape and Thor’s quick pursuit out in the forest grows fainter until Bucky can’t hear anything at all. They must be far away by now. As much as Bucky wants to know what’s happening out there, he’ll have to wait for them to return.

 _If_ they return. He still had no idea exactly what sort of attack they're dealing with, or who the assailants are. Hell, Sam might not make it back either.

In which case, he’ll sleep off his injuries, crawl back to the bunker if he has to, grab more guns and ammunition, and then see if he can’t find an enemy of his own to fight. With nothing better to do as the seconds continue to slip away, he plans for that scenario. He doesn’t want to be unprepared.

Six minutes go by, and then he hears something. Leaves rustling — just once. Somewhere to his right. Might have been an animal that didn’t have the sense to run.

But then there’s another sound — farther off and quieter. Even with his enhanced hearing, he has to concentrate to catch it. It’s rhythmic. Quick, like tiny bursts of high-pitched static.

It’s footsteps. Shoes, pushing through the ice that blankets the snow.

Goddamnit, it could be _anyone._ It could be Thor circling back around. Steve. _Lincoln._ But fear moves his finger toward the trigger of the gun in his lap.

Something feels off. He’s being watched. He knows it intrinsically, like he knows the feeling of hunger or pain. Whatever had made that first noise — that singular shift of frozen leaves against the ground — it’s still close. That’s what’s watching him. It hadn’t left, it’s just waiting. Staying still. Just like he is.

Gunfire shatters the silence.

Bucky doesn’t know if he’s been hit or not — doesn’t take the time to process. Just raises his own rifle and returns fire, because that noise off to his right, _that’s_ where the shots came from. He had seen the flash of the barrel in the dark. Adrenaline pulls him to his feet, and he aims for the memory of that brief spark of powder, digs his bare feet into the soft ground, and squeezes the trigger.

* * *

Steve has lost the wide trail twice in the dark, and twice he’s managed to find it again. It’s clearer here, where the ground is softer, and he’s making good headway, following its winding course through the trees. He’s been racking his brain for what could have made the broad, uneven track that widens and narrows as it weaves through the forest but, finally, he gets a glimmer of hope.

Footprints. _Real_ footprints in the snow — deep and fresh, running alongside the unexplainable trench. And God, he hopes he’s not losing his mind or deluding himself, but it _looks_ like Sam’s stride, and they’re about the right size to match Sam’s feet. He quickens his pace after he sees that.

He stumbles down a shallow embankment to a low, muddy stretch where the trail is deeper, smearing through the snow and mud like a broad brush-stroke across brown and white oils, and follows alongside it. It looks fresh. Now, instead of keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, he looks around. Whatever he’s been chasing, it’s close now.

But just as he pauses to search out the tracks again, keeping himself on the right path, he hears a noise. Movement, just ahead. Maybe two hundred yards east of his current position.

He doesn’t hear anything else in the seconds that follow. The woods fall silent again. But somehow, the silence seems intentional. Threatening. Like an animal, crouched.

Maybe whatever he’s been following isn’t something he wants to find.

He raises his shield and takes two steps forward, and that’s as far as he makes it. Gunfire erupts somewhere up ahead, but that wasp-like sound of splitting air comes much closer. He takes another step forward, looking for cover, before he feels the heat bloom the side of his calf. Bullet grazed his leg. Whoever’s shooting has a lock on him, and he hasn’t found them yet.

He sinks low behind his shield, stops breathing, and watches the shadows for any sign of the attacker.

His search ends in less than a second. More gunfire, just ahead and to his left now, so the shooter’s on the move. But this time he’s seen the glow of the barrel and he was listening hard, bent on locating the gunman. His shield flies from his grip with good aim and better force, and he charges forward after it, hand raised to catch it when it bounces off the shooter’s weapon.

But it doesn’t come back.

A brief gleam of silver darts from behind the cover of a dark tree and disappears in the same instant — and his shield disappears along with it.

Another burst of rounds explodes somewhere off to his right, but this time he can hear the bullets pop deafeningly against the surface of his shield. Up ahead, the second gunman returns fire, and Steve thinks he hears a sharp exhale just as the firing stops. Branches snap. The first gunman is running — must have been hit.

Steve forgets all about the blood streaming down his calf and the shooter who had taken aim at him. He sprints, body buzzing with hope and numb with disbelief, because there’s only _one_ person in the whole world who could have hit that moving target in pitch dark, who shoots with that uncanny rhythm, who can catch that shield use it just as fast as _he_ can.

* * *

Bucky barely has time to fit all the pieces together in the seconds after of the shootout. The assailant has fled. There are footsteps at his six, running toward him fast.

The shield in his hand.

He drops his gun and the shield and stumbles forward, away from the cover of the tree, slow-moving and fighting off shock, and just as he’s beginning to understand, Steve’s arms are around him like a vice, and his arms are around Steve. _Steve._

They fall into the mud and snow, both knocked off-balance by the force of their sudden, desperate, electrical embrace. They’re cold and soaking wet and filthy and they’re clinging so tightly to one another that it hurts. Careless of the attacker who could double back at any second and take aim again. Right now, they force the world and its unending disasters to stop and, for just a few borrowed seconds in the midst of total chaos, they hold onto each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you guys soon! LOTS of answers (and familiar faces) are coming in the next chapter.


	8. Pearl Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Steve and Bucky are reunited, Steve is beginning to see Tony's side of things. If they don't fight, they lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, a whole lot of this almost got cut (and probably should have been). But you know what? It's been dark for the last few chapters. Let's have some fun. 2000 extra words. XD
> 
> In other news, my boyfriend and I are working together on an Instagram with photographs and supplemental material for The Simple Life series. While it's probably a cringe-worthy mess right now, it's been a lot of fun to work on, and a few followers are apparently enjoying it so far.
> 
> If you're interested in following the series' Instagram, message me on IG at howler32557038 and send me a follow request - just let me know you're a reader and promise not to share the images, and I'll approve your request! Thanks, guys!

“Steve!”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh, my God, you’re alright—”

“—you _okay_?”

“Where are they?”

“Who was—?”

“Steve, _where are they_?”

“They’re at the bunker—”

“Jesus—!”

“They’re with Ruth, baby, they’re alright—”

“ _Ruth_?”

“She made it here, she found—”

“Oh, my God,” Bucky shudders, body racked with hard, breathless sounds that are almost sobs, even though he seems too delighted to cry. “They’re alright. They all made it.”

Steve catches Bucky’s weight as he slumps into him, senseless with frantic, terrified gasps and laughter. Steve’s own emotions are a likewise uncanny mixture of shock and confusion and indescribable joy.

“You got them out—”

“I got them out, Buck, I told you I’d get them out—baby, you saved us back there—”

“I love you so much—”

“ _Are you hurt_?”

“Yeah—yeah, but I’ll be okay—Steve, get me back to the bunker—”

“Did you see—”

“Sam’s okay, I sent him—”

“Oh, God—Sam—thank you, thank _God—_ ”

“I sent him to the bunker to look for you—”

“Who was that? Did you see them?”

“No, I—” Bucky stops, catching his breath, and stares back at the silent, deserted woods around them, as if he’s only just remembering the gunman. “I didn’t see them. I—help me up.”

Finally, Steve takes a moment to collect himself and assess their situation. The other shooter could still be close, and he doesn't trust their luck in a second fight — not with Bucky in such a bad state. God only knows what he put himself through to get past Banner and out of the Facility. He should carry him back to that bunker at a dead sprint. Even in the dark, he can see the bloodstains on Bucky’s clothes.

Finally, Bucky’s expectant gaze wears him down and he obliges, but only grudgingly. Banner put Bucky on bedrest for a damn good reason, and if there are complications _now,_ they’ll have no way to treat him without a miraculous end to the seemingly endless disaster.

Even leaning most of his weight on Steve’s shoulder, Bucky doesn’t walk easily. He’s bent nearly double, clutching his low belly for a moment as he stands. The pain makes him bare his teeth, but he does it. Steve sees him grimace with frustration and follows his eyeline back to the ground.

He relinquishes, picks up the M4, and hands it to him. He grabs his shield, too, and suddenly he can’t help but smile. “Nice catch.”

“I love that thing.”

“I know you do.”

Pulling insistently at Steve’s supporting shoulder, Bucky guides them to the place he had aimed for. They hear nothing in the surrounding woods and neither of them senses another presence, so they risk using the light of Steve’s cellphone to search the ground. Steve doesn’t see any sign that anyone had stood there — but he’s almost certain he can still catch the scent of gunsmoke and the faintest hint of gun-oil.

But Bucky’s eyes are better trained to this kind of work — he sees more than Steve does. Using Steve’s arm to support himself, he crouches low, touching a few of the bruised, wet leaves. Once Bucky draws his attention to them, Steve understands what he’s studying — those should be beneath the snow. Not on top of it. Someone had swept across their own tracks here — erased all the identifying marks as they ran. Once they made it out of the muddy thicket, it wouldn’t be hard to use the patches of firm ground and protruding roots to leave no other tracks until they were clear of potential pursuit.

Bucky brushes away the snow and digs down to the mud underneath as Steve shines the light for him. Steve sees the little indentations, too. Already filling with water. The recoil of the rifle had left the shooter no choice but to leave two deep prints in the soft ground.

“Female, about a hundred and seventy pounds,” Bucky guesses, pressing his own fingers into the mud to test its give. He holds out his hand wordlessly, and Steve pulls him back up. Bucky searches out the driest path through the woods, knowing that anyone well-trained enough to cover their tracks in the middle of a firefight would take it if they were forced to retreat.

They find their prize.

“Bucky.”

Steve uses the light to draw his attention to the dead leaves of a fallen tree, illuminating a dark glimmer on the edges of them. Bucky pinches one between his fingers and holds them up to the flashlight, bringing the deep red into sharp relief against his skin. It’s fresh blood.

“You got her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies faintly. He takes one last look around, but he doesn’t see any other trails to follow. None that are worth his time, anyway. He frowns, wiping his fingers off on his sweatpants. “Not good enough.”

There’s a sudden commotion somewhere to the north. Steve’s eyes dart upward and he raises his shield, searching the shadows between every tree. Bucky tucks himself just behind Steve’s shoulder. He can feel the M4’s barrel hovering at the ready just beside his right elbow.

Heavy footfalls. The sound of an argument, though the words are still indiscernible. Couldn’t be the shooter.

Bucky lowers his gun and lets out a breath. “It’s Thor and Banner.”

Steve throws a surprised glance over his shoulder.

“We heard something. They went to check it out just before you got here—”

“That doesn’t sound like _Bruce,_ Steve argues quietly, keeping himself between Bucky and the footsteps.

“He’s not being aggressive, it’s alright—”

“Shit.” Steve lowers his shield, letting it drop heavily to his side. Won’t do him any good if Banner’s in the mood to throw a punch. It’ll just piss him off. It’s not _alright —_ the last time he saw the Hulk, back on the sixth floor of their destroyed home, he was out for blood. He’s fought with the Hulk a hundred times and knows he’s a loose fucking cannon, a time bomb; Bucky hasn’t seen how quickly he can turn on a teammate once he’s out of enemies to fight.

But Bucky thinks he knows better. “Come on.” He lays a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, urging him back toward the clearing.

Steve relinquishes with a frustrated sigh. At least Thor is with him.

Even with Steve’s help, it takes Bucky longer to walk the fifty feet back to the clearing than it does for Thor and Banner to close their three-hundred yards at a run.

Thor is shouting for Bucky by the time they break through the thick underbrush. “Barnes! We heard—” The moment he sees them, his tense face splits into a relieved grin. “Steve.”

“Thor,” he replies tersely. His attention remains warily focused on the Hulk as he makes a wide circle around the clearing’s perimeter, smelling the air, picking up the scent of the fight and searching for the assailant. Steve can’t help but feel like he’s hunting _them._ He pulls Bucky closer to his side.

“We heard gunfire. What happened? Barnes, are you hurt?”

“I didn’t see who—”

Bucky isn’t allowed the opportunity to explain further. Without warning, the Hulk jumps from the top of the steep embankment down to the muddy patch of ground where Steve, Bucky, and Thor are standing. Steve steadies Bucky protectively as the ground heaves under their feet. The Hulk looks at each of them in turn, teeth bared in a threatening, unbalanced smile. He looks like a toddler demanding the undivided attention of a room full of adults. Once he’s sure everyone is looking at him, he throws something down into the mud with a splash.

“Oh, right,” Thor says softly, scowling with something between annoyance and embarrassment. Steve thinks he looks almost _guilty._ “Look what we found.”

Steve doesn’t recognize it as a living thing at first. It looks like an oversized bag that had been dragged through a dozen briars, until it rises, bent and coughing hard from traveling in the Hulk’s lung-crushing grasp.

Steve’s vision washes red at the edges. God _damn it._ Of course. _Of course,_ he would be here. Destruction of this magnitude, the mind-altering weapon — it had that bastard’s name written all over it from the beginning. Steve is ready to give Banner the word to kill him where he stands — the only thing stopping him is the fact that he needs to know how to stop whatever apocalypse _he’d_ set in motion. “What did you do?” he demands.

Loki raises his eyes, fixing Steve with that infuriating expression of feigned remorse — the same pitiful taunt he’d thrown at Steve just before Thor had transported him off-world after the attack on New York. He hasn’t forgotten it, even after eleven years. It still makes him livid. Loki doesn’t have the good sense to answer promptly.

Steve throws his shield down hard. He has Loki by the collar before it can hit the ground. “You _son of a bitch_ , what did you do?”

“I came to help.” Loki’s reply is immediate this time. Fear reduces his voice to a low rasp. He’s _begging_ to be believed. Steve feels the Hulk’s massive presence just behind him, and it doesn’t escape him that Loki’s terrified, pleading gaze is focused over his shoulder and not at him.

His grip tightens reflexively. He wants to tear the bastard in half.

Thor clasps his hands at his waist, demonstrating effectively that he has absolutely no plans of intervening if Steve or Banner lose what little patience they have between them. “That’s what he told me. I didn’t believe him, either.”

Steve restrains himself, settling for half-smile that doesn’t do much to conceal a sadistic edge. “Hulk, you want to ask him anything?” Banner lets out an eager, chest-deep growl in response. Loki’s eyes widen with panic and Steve feels him actually trying to sink lower into his grip. That did the trick. “Talk.”

“I—I know where your friends are—” he offers desperately.

Steve lifts an eyebrow. He can feel the Hulk pacing like a hungry animal a few feet behind him, just waiting for the word. He knows he doesn’t need to ask Loki to go on.

“The young one. On the roof. He was mad — weeping. I took him somewhere safe just before the roof collapsed. He would be dead if I hadn’t—”

“Who?” Thor interjects.

“I didn’t _know_ him,” Loki bites back. “A boy. He climbs walls.”

“Ah,” Thor nods, but Steve sees the blank expression on his face out of the corner of his eye. “That one.”

“Where is he now?”

“Safe. Unconscious. He attacked me without provocation—I had to—I’ll take you to him—”

Peter got out. Thank God. “Who else?”

“A man. And a woman. Powerful. They were fighting — I couldn’t get close. The man had—”

“Vision and Wanda,” Steve confirms, catching Thor’s eye as he releases his grip on Loki and shoves him away. “Take us to them. You can tell us what you had to do with this on the way.”

Steve motions to Banner. Loki can lead the way, but he’s going to do it with his worst nightmare on his heels the whole way, and Bruce will be ready if he has the gall to step out of line. Loki raises his hands in surrender, nods, and turns slowly on his heel to lead them out of the clearing.

Steve hangs back as the others follow Loki back up the north side of the embankment, staring questioningly at Bucky. When Bucky doesn’t move, he reaches out to pick him up only to be pushed away.

“I can walk. Just let me lean on you.”

“Bucky.”

“I’ll try not to slow you down.”

“ _Bucky_.”

Bucky takes a few steps without him, and Steve is forced to relent and give him his shoulder for support. Bucky keeps his teeth clenched as they climb the slick, snowy hill, but Steve knows he’s in pain. He can practically feel it. Still, they manage to keep pace with the others.

“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky whispers.

“Loki,” Steve answers disdainfully. “Thor’s brother.”

“The alien thing? In Manhattan?”

“Yeah.”

“You think he did this?”

Steve hesitates. He had jumped to that conclusion, but the more he thinks about the situation logically, the more he doubts that Loki is spearheading this attack. The last time he’d lead an invasion on Earth, Steve had seen him everywhere. He was never hard to track down — took every opportunity for fanfare and declared his intentions to anyone who’d listen. Even garnered some supporters. He didn’t work covertly, especially not at the moment of triumph. He seemed to like attention more than he craved success. But _this—_ whatever they’re facing now—this was successful. If Loki was responsible, Steve is sure he’d be gloating. “I don’t know.”

Loki looks back over his shoulder at the two of them, lagging twenty feet behind. Despite their low tones, he’d heard them loud and clear.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Captain,” he interjects. His voice is cold and spiteful, but one glance up at the Hulk’s looming figure walking beside him, and he cleans his tone right up. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Then you didn’t come to help,” Thor smiles triumphantly. “Did you?”

“I came to see if you’d found my sword. You were taking too long. I didn’t _know_ there would be a war, but now that I know, I’m helping.”

“You came all the way to Midgard for Laevateinn.”

“You came all the way to Midgard for a soup pot.”

“Well, I’m allowed to leave Asgard. You’re not.”

Bucky leans toward Steve, and in an almost inaudible whisper asks, “What the fuck?”

Steve responds only with a weary look.

“You took my sword from me and confined me—”

“Because you can’t be trusted—”

“And because of your negligence, Laevateinn was stolen.”

“You have _no knowledge_ of—” Thor makes an expansive gesture in the direction of the Facility. “ _Any_ of this?”

“I saw other cities,” Loki explains grimly. “The whole realm’s at war. I have no desire to destroy Midgard’s people, but if I did...I would have taken credit for this.”

Steve almost laughs. At least he knew his enemy. Thor also seems to consider Loki’s statement and, after a moment, decides he’s being honest. “I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

Thor throws his brother a cutting grin. “Now you can tell me what you _were_ here to do.”

“I told you—”

“I didn’t believe that part.”

“Quiet.” Loki holds his hand up, signaling the group to stop. He listens. Thor waits impatiently, as if he thinks Loki had only silenced him to avoid the rest of their conversation. But a moment later, Steve and Thor hear what had made him call the halt: distant cries — an agonized human voice, calling out wordlessly. “That’s the boy.”

Steve’s gaze shifts toward Bucky, searching for permission and offering an apology in the same moment. Bucky nods. “Thor—”

He seems to understand the request immediately, and takes Bucky by the other shoulder, leaving Steve free to go after Peter. He takes off as fast as his tired legs will carry him over the slick ground — the kid sounds _bad._

* * *

 

It takes Steve a few minutes to overtake him, following the sound of his terror-stricken voice through the maze of trees and copses. Peter isn’t calling out for help — just crying, and every few seconds, the sobs crescendo into gut-wrenching shouts, overflowing with fear and sadness like water bailed out of a sinking ship. When Steve finally overtakes him, he’s wandering away north, feet dragging through the snow and weaving drunkenly, clinging to low-hanging branches to keep himself standing upright. He’s wearing the same basketball shorts Steve had seen him in earlier. The oversized Stark Industries tee is sweat-soaked, clinging to his skin. The cord of his earbuds dangles from his pocket, trailing through the melting snow left by his winding tracks. He had been wearing sandals, but one is lost. There are cuts on his feet.

He doesn’t acknowledge Steve, even though he should have heard him coming a mile away. He passes through the forest like a ghost, unconcerned with his surroundings, aware of only pain. Steve walks right beside him, and still, he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t see him. He goes right on crying.

Steve had been with Bucky when Tony went down. He’d seen victims in North Korea, but he hadn’t known any of them. Some of them had been young — he’d seen toddlers sick with this, and it had nearly torn his heart in half.

But he hasn’t seen _this —_ someone he knows, whose mannerisms are familiar to him, someone whose smile is etched in his memory. He’s never seen what this sickness does to a person, how it takes the life out of their body and leaves them walking, how it extinguishes that little light in the eyes, the way it warps what they were into a broken parody of human grief.

Peter had sustained a head injury in Jericho. The old bandage hangs over his eyes now, soaked with fresh blood and mud-stained. His nose is bleeding. Steve allows himself to wonder for a single moment if the wounds might be self-inflicted — he’d seen people do it, back in North Korea — but the thought proves too frightening to entertain. He reaches out and lays his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter keeps walking.

“Kid—”

He pushes Steve’s hand off his shoulder like a branch that’s in his way.

“Peter, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Steve turns and extends his arm across Parker’s path, catches him around the waist and pulls him hard against his side. He knows that if the kid puts up a real fight, he’ll be hard to hold — even for Steve. Peter’s enhancements are unique and his physical strength is incredible, and Steve’s only advantage is technique and experience. But he gets lucky. Peter stops walking and falls against him. His sobs come faster and harder until he hyperventilates, and the lack of oxygen makes his legs give out. Steve supports him, but he knows Peter needs to rest before they make the walk back to rejoin the others. He sinks down to the ground with him, staying close beside him, and lays his hand over Peter’s mouth, forcing him to breathe through the narrow gaps between his fingers.

“You’re alright, kid. You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t know, I didn’t know—”

“Slow down. Take a deep breath for me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m so sorry—”

“Hey—hey, come on. One deep breath. You’re alright.”

It takes a few minutes before Peter can do it, and Steve counts every second of them. He holds onto him the entire time, and the pressure of the embrace keeps the kid calm and immobilized. Steve had seen how suddenly the urge to self-harm could overtake someone suffering from this. He slows his own breathing down, too. Finally, Peter’s body begins to imitate the slow rhythm, dragging air in controlled gasps through Steve’s fingers, exhaling in long, unsteady shudders.

By the time they’re breathing in sync, Peter has stopped crying and fallen silent. He’s dead weight against Steve’s chest — conscious, but not present. The whites of his eyes are brilliant and bloodshot, and his irises are still and glassy like shallow water, uncomprehending of the world around him. If not for the rise and fall of Peter’s chest, Steve would be sure he was dead.

Steve shifts slowly, moving to cradle his neck and help him sit up. “Hey, Peter.” Peter’s eyes flicker toward him, and then over the dark landscape around them. He’s coming out of it. “Talk to me.”

“How’d I...get here?”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re safe.”

“I wanna _die_.”

Steve feels a deadening sense of cold spread down into his fingertips. That’s _Peter._ Peter wouldn’t say that. The desperation, the _sincerity_ in his voice is horrific.

“Please—please, I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do. What to say. All he knows is that people _do_ recover from this with time — they just have to make it through this period of peak symptom presentation. Tony had done it; Peter can do it, too, even if Steve has to hold him down until the urge subsides. He nods. “I know. I know it’s gotta be hard right now,” he says, pulling Peter up off the ground, forcing him to stand up and walk alongside him. “But it’s going to pass. Give it a little time.”

_Jesus — what if it doesn’t? We don’t know what this is. This could be what’s waiting for every single one of us._

Images and noises appear in bursts in Steve’s mind: Bucky’s voice, as broken as Peters — _“I’m so tired.”_ Lincoln’s body, cradled in his arms just like Peter’s is, boneless and heavy. _“I wanna die.”_

Together, they struggle up a muddy hill. They only make it ten feet before Parker stumbles, bent with vicious sobs again. Steve remembers this kind of pain. He’d seen a lot of it during the war. Kids the same age as Peter. Younger. He’d walked them back to the trenches and put a rifle in their hands, and he’s never forgiven himself for it. But the only other option was to leave them in the field to die. He can’t do that, either. “Come on,” he urges. “We’re gonna get you some help.”

Peter manages only approximations of words. “I can’t—I can’t do it. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Steve’s no longer offering encouragement. He’s stating a fact. Peter’s not dead yet, so that means he can keep fighting. “Walk.”

* * *

 

Bucky can feel his legs giving out again. Thor supports more of his weight by the second. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem too inconvenienced by it. Steve has been gone for almost five minutes now, and Bucky’s starting to worry about what he might have found. He can’t hear Parker’s voice anymore, but that could mean _anything —_ Steve might’ve been able to calm him down, or he might have run off and forced Steve to pursue him further into the woods, out of earshot.

He might have died.

However heartbreaking that would be to Bucky, Steve would take it a hell of a lot harder. And Tony — Tony would never be the same.

“You’re bleeding.”

The Hulk stops suddenly. He had been circling the three of them, nervous and impatient, his eyes never leaving Loki for a second. He growls warningly when Loki has the gall to speak. Bucky wonders how long he’s been staring at him like that — he doesn’t like that glint of keen interest he sees, or the little frown on his face. He looks like he knows more than he’s saying.

Bucky keeps his finger on the M4’s trigger, hoping the guy will notice _that_ and mind his own goddamn business. No such luck. Bucky keeps his answer cold and to the point. “I had a bad day.”

He is _acutely_ aware of what Loki must be piecing together. He’s not wearing anything but the t-shirt he’d been sleeping in and the sweatpants he’d thrown on before they’d evacuated. There’s nothing binding his chest down, he’s agonizingly swollen, and his shirt is soaked through with milk. The urge to nurse is so intense that he occasionally thinks he _hears_ Brooklyn crying or feels her trying to latch. Both his pants and his bare feet are stained with old blood, and he no longer has Thor’s cloak to hide behind. His body still shows fresh, unmistakable signs of pregnancy.

“You’ve given birth,” Loki presses. “Recently.” The Hulk lowers his head, advancing just behind him. Steve had told him that Loki was bad news, but he’d neglected to mention that he was a fucking idiot, too.

Bucky manages to keep his expression neutral. “Not up for discussion.”

But the guy’s apparently not giving up. He takes a remarkably daring step in Bucky’s direction, flinching when the Hulk tenses and clenches his fists, ready to choke the life out of him if he keeps at it. “You’re still bleeding, aren’t you? You were hurt.” Loki doesn’t risk getting any closer, but he leans in, reaching out experimentally with one hand, testing the Hulk’s patience. “It was much too soon for you to run.”

Bucky feels Thor take a breath in, presumably to remind his brother to shut the fuck up, but he doesn’t need Thor to speak for him. He jerks the charging handle and chambers a fresh round. He’s done talking.

“You’re going to bleed to death, friend.”

“Yeah, so are you,” Bucky reminds him, raising the M4 a few inches.

“Barnes—wait,” Thor interrupts hesitantly. He glances over toward Banner, and with a slight shake of his head, signals that he should back down. Banner scowls — he’s just as confused as Bucky is. “Loki? How bad is it?”

Loki’s eyes rake over the length of Bucky’s body. To his credit, he doesn’t put a bullet in the bastard’s head.

“Two more hours. Half an hour if he keeps walking.”

“What?” Bucky asks challengingly.

Loki’s reply is harsh and forcely, and _infuriatingly_ condescending. “Until you _die_.” Instantly, he gentles his voice, and closes the distance between them by another careful step. “I’ve had children, too. I know how difficult this can be to talk about with a stranger — with someone who doesn’t know what you’re capable of. Humans don’t understand people like us, do they?”

Bucky turns a bewildered gaze up at Thor. “He’s got kids?”

Thor grimaces. “Several — all from different fathers—”

Loki’s eyes narrow stingingly. Thor concedes and, with a hint of a smile, shuts his mouth. Loki reached out a little further, inviting Bucky to lean on him, instead. He’s treating him like a wild animal in need of rescue. “Let me help you.”

Bucky doesn’t move.

Loki tilts his head, offering a look that, even to Bucky’s hypervigilant, suspicious mind, seems genuinely empathetic. “You’ve got a newborn somewhere nearby.” He turns his head to the side, keeping his eyes fixed on Bucky until a strange, knowing smile cuts across his gaunt, razor-sharp features. “A daughter?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he gives any sign that he’s unnerved, either, but Loki apparently discerns enough to confirm that his guess is correct.

“And a son,” he adds, looking almost surprised, himself. “I’m sure they would both be devastated to lose you.”

“You don’t know how to be friendly,” Thor cuts in. “Look — you’re scaring him. Barnes, you should let him help you.”

Despite Thor’s encouragement, Bucky doesn’t relinquish his stiff hold on his rifle. “What’s he going to do?”

“Magic,” Thor answers, as if that’s a totally normal word to throw around in conversation. “Probably not dark magic,” he adds unhelpfully, reading Bucky’s skepticism.

Thor knows his brother better than anyone, and he’d be the first one to assume bad intention, if it was present. If Loki could figure out he’s got a son and a newborn daughter just by looking at him, there’s no reason he couldn’t sense that he’s hemorrhaging, too.

And really... _of course,_ he’s hemorrhaging. An eleven and a half pound baby, twenty-two stitches, a fight with the the fucking Hulk, and a two-storey fall to top it all off. He probably hasn’t cheated death this badly since he fell off that moving train.

Bucky wishes Steve was here. His head’s not clear enough to make a call on this right now. He could wait for him to come back, but the weakness in his legs is getting worse every second. His fingers and toes are tingling. His body’s not getting enough oxygen and his blood pressure’s in the tank. He’s just going to have to hope Thor’s judgment is sound.

“Whatever.”

Loki remains motionless for another second, eyes flashing impatiently from Thor to Bucky and back again. “Thor? I would appreciate it if you would go and stand with your _other_ friend.”

Thor helps Bucky transfer his weight to Loki’s shoulder. The man’s frame — slighter than Thor’s or Bucky’s — somehow holds his weight as effortlessly as Thor had. The moment Thor’s hands are free, he has them open and outstretched to Banner, who’s panting with anxiety over Loki’s every move. “It’s alright — he’s just trying to help. If he hurts Barnes, we’ll kill him together.”

“ _No._ ”

“You’ll kill him all by yourself.”

The Hulk grunts. Apparently, they’ve reached a compromise.

Loki walks him about twenty yards and stops at the dryest patch of ground he can find — the shade of an old, bent tree, whose tangled limbs had protected the ground from the brunt of the snowfall. He unclasps his own cloak and spreads it out in the mud between the hoary, protruding roots, and helps Bucky sit down on it.

Not so much as a drop of water seeps through. Bucky doesn’t feel the jab of a single stick or root. And the ground feels _warm._ It’s like climbing into an old feather-bed. Hell, if he bleeds out or Loki _does_ decide to kill him, at least he’ll die comfortable.

Loki doesn’t make any move to hurt him, though. He crouches down beside him, pushing him back to lean against the tree, and lays one hand low on his belly and the other on the small of his back, like he’s looking inside him by touch alone.

“How did this happen to you?”

Bucky is almost startled by Loki’s tone — it’s changed completely in the space of a few seconds, now that they’re alone. It’s soft. Conversational. And despite his steadfast caution, he’s tempted to let it put him at ease. “Bunch of mad scientists. Operated on me. Tried to create more — other people like me. Enhanced soldiers.”

“Hydra?” Loki asks plainly.

Bucky has to fight to keep from flinching. He doesn’t say that word or hear it spoken aloud much these days, and never with such an air of indifference. He and Steve have avoided even whispering it since Lincoln’s birth. “Yeah.”

“Did they use the Tesseract?”

“I don’t know. Had me drugged most of the time.”

Loki’s eyes fall. “I’m sorry they did that to you.” For a moment, he seems to concentrate entirely on whatever he’s trying to sense inside of Bucky. “You had more than two children.”

“I had...six others. Fifty years ago, anyway. Hydra kept all but one of them.”

“And she’s the only one left?” Loki mumbles. He sounds hauntingly sad. “You saw the others—”

“Get the fuck out of my head,” Bucky warns sharply.

Loki’s jaw tightens. “I certainly wish I could. Given our proximity, though, I’m afraid I’ll have to endure it a little longer.”

Neither of them speaks for a minute or two. Bucky lets Loki keep his hands on him, concentrating, thinking, presumably trying to map out his anatomy without seeing any of it, and Loki grants him a reprieve from any further questions.

Bucky’s anger over the intrusion on his memories fades incrementally as Loki continues to try to help him. Maybe he’s telling the truth, and it was unintentional. Bucky’s own question escapes his mouth before he knows what he’s doing. “How about you?”

The man’s demeanor has been nothing but oil-slick composure since they’d stepped away from Banner, but now there’s a minute twitch at the corner of his mouth and his sallow cheeks lose what little color they’d had. His eyes search the featureless forest surrounding them like he’s looking for an easy answer, until he settles for a single word. His lips twist briefly into a rueful smile, but something about his voice and posture suddenly seems unfathomably old and weary. “Monsters.” He laughs abruptly — a harsh, rasping sound like dry branches rattling. “All of my children were monsters. Creatures to be tamed and subjugated or slain.”

The silence that follows seems to ring eerily, like the moments just after a bell has been struck. It’s an understanding Bucky has never shared with anyone — least of all a stranger. Steve tried to understand, but there’s a stark difference between Steve’s sympathy and the _empathy_ he feels now. It’s surreal and unnerving, but somehow, it’s a welcome change. A weight he had carried alone which, doubled, feels only half as heavy. Maybe Loki already knows how stricken Bucky was by that description — in fact, he hopes he knows, because the best he can manage to say in reply is, “I’m sorry.”

Loki laughs again — this time in a low exhale. Sad, but not bitter, like it had been. “Well, it was a long time ago,” he says lightly, catching Bucky’s eye as if to remark, _for both of us._

“Think you can stop the bleeding?” Bucky asks. His kids are the only thing on his mind now — he doesn’t want to die before he makes it back to the bunker, and he’s starting to wonder anxiously if Loki’s found himself at a loss for how to fix him.

But Loki’s response is to remove his hands and raise them disarmingly, as if to show Bucky that they’re suddenly unoccupied. “Finished.”

“With what?” Bucky stutters lamely.

Loki’s right fist closes and opens again, and a little bottle appears between his fingers. He takes Bucky’s hand and drops it into his palm. “You’re not bleeding anymore.” When Bucky doesn’t move or speak, he directs his eyes meaningfully toward the bottle. “As for the blood you lost already, take a very, very small drink of that.”

He’s still too stunned to argue. He uncaps it. A pervasive, mind-altering smell instantly feels the air. “What—”

“You’ll find yourself a little more uninhibited for an hour or two,” Loki admits with a rather guilty smile, clearly amused with what must be a hell of an understatement, if the fumes are anything to go by. “But it should give you enough strength to make it back to the lake.”

Bucky almost does it, and hesitates.

Loki shakes his head knowingly. “It won’t hurt her.”

Bucky drinks about a teaspoon of the liquid, and _Jesus, God Almighty_.

He's not sure what _more_ would have done to him — he probably would have left this plane of reality and ascended to another instantaneously. Maybe a teaspoon was too much.

He’s certainly not cold anymore. He can feel his limbs again. His back doesn't hurt, the cramps are gone, the bruises and scrapes from his fight with the Hulk are instantly better, and that numb, hopeless terror that had gripped him from the moment Lincoln came home from Sam's suddenly feels distant. He's not tired. Christ, he never needs to sleep again. But for all the incredible advantages of whatever Loki had given him, there's a serious drawback: he sure as shit isn’t sober.

“Do you think you can stand?”

How long has he been staring at this guy? Why isn't he stopping? He’s not even sure who’s looking at who.

“I think you may have overdone it,” Loki smirks, hauling him up off the ground. He wraps him in the still-dry cloak, even though Bucky's as warm as Christmas lights.

He feels like he might just have enough momentum to keep going and float away, like gravity isn't working like it used to. Whatever part of him is still sane is shocked to hear the rest of him laugh. “Oh, I _know_ I overdid it.” Loki steadies him and fixes him with a wearied gaze. “Fuck,” he adds, unintentionally.

Loki grips his arm hard as he tries to walk away — _Jesus, he can walk again! Just like that! Magic. —_ and places it back over his shoulders. “Slowly,” he orders sternly, brooking no argument. “You may feel better, but you're still held together with stitches.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Bucky’s pretty confident he’d said it out loud, anyway.

Loki steps in front of him, blocking his path, and plucks the vial from his fingers. He holds it up in front of his face, forcing him to focus on it. “Barnes, listen very carefully.”

He does his best, but his attention must wander. Loki swats him on the jaw.

“I would— _listen—_ I would rather that Thor didn’t know I had this.” He holds the bottle a little closer to Bucky’s face for good measure. “Can I trust you?”

“Why?” Bucky asks instantly. Goddamnit, it’s none of his business, but he’s a little drunk and _itching_ to pick a fight. “Scared he'll find out you fell off the wagon?”

Loki’s countermeasure is swift and harsh, and cuts right through the pleasant high of the liquor. “You’ve kept a few secrets, yourself. Your son would be devastated if he knew how many people you’ve killed.”

Maybe Loki isn’t as misunderstood as Bucky had let himself think. That’s what he gets for trusting someone. He stares him down, fighting the urge to tell Thor _now_ just to spite the fucker — but he had saved his life. Bucky knows a fair deal when he sees one. “Yeah,” he replies decisively. “No problem.”

Loki clenches his fist, and the bottle disappears again. 

* * *

 

Steve makes it halfway back to the others before he decides that Peter isn’t moving fast enough. Peter doesn’t say a word as Steve bends down and lifts him up, cradling him like a child. He makes better time after that.

Bucky’s face washes white the moment Steve reaches them.

“Jesus, Steve—is he—”

“He’ll be alright,” Steve promises, transferring Parker’s limp body into Thor’s outstretched arms. Bucky is standing on his own now, and Steve thinks he can see a little more life in him than before. Still, he offers him his shoulder once again, and Bucky takes it.

“Loki, take us to the others,” he orders. “Thor, keep an eye out. If Wanda’s been affected, she’ll be dangerous.”

“What about the Vision?”

“Let’s hope he’s immune.”

They follow after Loki, still moving north toward the bunker. Steve takes stock of their assets. Thor and Banner are fit for combat, if the need arises. So is he. Tony needs medical attention, but once he gets into a nanite suit, he’ll be able to hold his own. Sam’s state remains to be seen, but he was well enough to make the trip to the bunker, which means he can fight if he has to. Sharon’s dead weight until her lungs recover from all that smoke inhalation. They’ve got a lead on Vision and Wanda, but that’s all they’ve got. Parker’s down. As little as Steve wants his help, Loki could be useful. Ruth can fight, whether she knows she can or not. Lang, Romanov, Rhodes and Barton are all MIA. Despite the fact that he seems to be making an impossibly swift recovery, Bucky still can’t walk too well, but he doesn’t have to — as long as they can find a gun to put in his hands, he’ll make himself useful.

Loki is veering steadily eastward now, retracing his steps back to where he’d seen Vision and Wanda fighting. The bunker is in the other direction, which means there’s a decision to make. Fortunately, Steve has already made it.

“Thor, if Vision and Wanda are alive, you and Loki get ‘em to Hangar C. Take Banner with you. Buck and I will meet Wilson at the bunker and wait for Tony. We’ll have kids and wounded, so you’re gonna bring the jet to us. South end of the lake.”

“We’ll be there.”

When the time comes to part ways, Thor helps Steve lift Peter’s semi-conscious body over his right shoulder. Bucky’s still leaning on his left, but he doesn’t need nearly as much help as he had, and Peter’s light. They’ll make good time. There are emergency medical supplies on the jet, and after that, they’ll move on to one of the team’s other bases and work from there. Steve is already running down a list of the outposts in his head, factoring in security, remote locations, capacity, medical facilities, what weapons are stored there — everything they’re going to need. This sickness had hit the police and military hard in North Korea. If the same is true here, they’ll have a dangerous fight on their hands soon, with well-equipped enemies who need to be rescued rather than gunned down. It’s going to be complicated. The first step will be the hardest, though: they need to find out how the sickness spreads — a question still left unanswered by every major agency on the planet — and they need to take precautions. The people on this team are too dangerous to risk a second exposure, and the ruined Facility is proof of that. They’ll have to figure it out fast.

Bucky has apparently read his expression effortlessly. He looks over at him as they walk, studying his face with a tired, knowing gaze that somehow still burns with resolution. “We’re gonna fight, aren’t we?”

Steve glances over, noting that Bucky’s still keeping pace with him. God, an hour ago, he’d been prepared to believe Bucky was dead. He feels like an idiot for underestimating him. He’d also been ready to run — from the epidemic, from his team — as far as he had to until he ran out of places to hide and measures to protect his children. Tony was right. He just wasn't ready to hear it. “Not much choice. Whatever I saw over there, if that got out...nowhere’s gonna to be safe for long.”

Bucky is still close enough that he feels him sigh. He looks exhausted, but not hopeless. He’s pressing on faster now, and Steve can sense his eagerness to reach the bunker. Now that he knows that his family came out of the collapse unhurt, there’s a dim glow of happiness softening his dour attitude. His sigh ends in an almost imperceptible laugh.

Steve smiles back. It’s a strange feeling, after all he’s been through today. “What?”

“Steve, I love you,” Bucky chuckles. “Just wasn’t really in the mood to hit the road with Captain America today. I don’t want to go to war. I want to go to bed.”

Steve’s smile sinks at word _war_. His jaw tightens. He swallows down a rush of fear, and holds onto Bucky just a little tighter, because he’s right. The world may very well be at war, and if he was waiting around for a reason to do his job, then this is it. The Facility, his apartment, Brooklyn and Lincoln, Bucky, _Peter._ He’s waited long enough. Ford Island is burning. “Come on, Buck, it’ll be fun,” he jokes grimly. “We’ll bring the kids.”

“You’re not helping, Steve.”

“What the hell’s — Bucky, why do you smell like booze?”

Bucky smiles in earnest this time. He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later.”


	9. Carry On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it back, just in time to pack up and leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry for my month-long hiatus. We're moving the collection I manage at work, and hauling, sorting, and shelving 13,000 books has left me no energy for anything else. At home, we're in the process of replacing all of the outlets and light-fixtures, which has been a special kind of hell.
> 
> I know a lot of you are off enjoying Endgame tonight (or suffering through it, or whatever), so I hope a little more Stucky content will either enhance your already great night or fix your bad one.
> 
> This chapter was edited by the amazing and incredible Sasha. She puts up with my nonsense in the Google Docs chat, but she doesn't put up with my nonsense in the document. I love her and I hope she never leaves me.
> 
> I'll fix the formatting and weird hyphens in this chapter tomorrow.

Steve and Bucky walk in silence. Bucky’s eyes watch the ground, cautious of the uneven terrain and his own injured body, even as he relentlessly chases the prize at the end of his short journey.

Steve knows he’s letting Bucky push himself too far. He does his best to keep their pace even, but he can’t bring himself to tell Bucky to slow down. This doesn’t feel like the right time to suggest patience.

He shares Bucky’s desperation - the thought of reaching the bunker and holding on to his kids again is all consuming. Must be even worse for Bucky: he hasn’t even seen them yet. Steve can’t forget the physical relief of putting his arms around Lincoln once Ruth had reunited them. He can’t imagine what it feels like for Bucky to be separated from Brooklyn now - twenty-four hours ago, she was still safe inside his body, and now he’s dragging himself through the snow and mud, bruised and blood-stained, to get back to her. It’s unfair. It never should have happened. And maybe Tony’s argument had struck a chord with him, but Steve is more eager by the second to find out who caused this. He wants to know who he’s going to kill.

Five hundred yards away from the bunker, Bucky’s hand shifts upward to rest on Steve’s stomach. He slows down. Taps him. Catches his eye. Steve can’t fathom why Bucky would call a halt now - not when they’re  _ so _ close - but he obeys. Bucky turns his head, straining to hear something over the white noise of the wind and leaves, so Steve listens too.

“What is it?” he whispers.

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, keeping his voice so soft that Steve barely understands him. Bucky waits, listening, and Steve holds his breath, not daring to question him. Finally, the sound comes again - one low, rasping cough.

Bucky shrugs off Steve’s supporting arm and turns back before Steve can stop him, clinging to slick tree trunks for support with one hand and holding the rifle in his left, keeping it half-raised in anticipation.

“Bucky--”

“That’s Sam.”

Steve has no choice but to follow him. Bucky retraces their steps about a hundred paces before he veers north, peering into the darkness, and finally decides to risk calling out. He lets go of the low branch he’d been leaning on and takes the M4 in both hands.

“Wilson!”

Tension stretches the passing seconds until they hear the reply. “Barnes--” cut off by another wracking cough. But it  _ is _ Sam.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

Steve just catches Bucky’s quiet, frustrated hiss before he hurries forward, weaving through the trees too quickly for Steve to keep up with Peter over his shoulder. Bucky had made a desperate move when he sent Sam out to the bunker alone and injured. Looks like Sam didn’t make it there unscathed. Steve’s heart sinks. That kind of call is never easy, and nothing hurts like discovering it was the  _ wrong _ call. They aren’t strong enough to weather that kind of regret right now - Bucky, least of all.

They find Sam lying face-down at the bottom of a steep hill with soaked clothing and a bloody nose. His wrists are bound with two zip ties which have bitten deep into his flesh. Steve’s gut twists. For a moment, it looks like the worst-case scenario. Bucky throws himself down beside Sam, checking for breath and a pulse. 

Steve shudders with terror when Bucky sits back on heels, kneeling in the dirt, and lets out a ragged exhale. “Fuck,” Bucky practically shouts. “Jesus - thank you.”

_ Sam, you son of a bitch.  _ Steve’s face splits into a flashing grin. Sam isn’t alright, but he’s not dead. He’ll take it.

He sets Peter down and runs to Sam’s side as Bucky checks their perimeter, pointing the rifle’s barrel at even the slightest sign of movement. Steve can practically feel how badly Bucky wants to find something to shoot.

“Somebody dragged him here,” Bucky grits out as Steve turns Sam’s limp body over, trying to get a look at his pupils. Bucky kicks at a patch of ground. “They gave up. Fell down right here - look at the blood.”

So whoever had attacked Sam tried to take him alive, but their own injuries got the better of them. They couldn’t finish the job. “You think it’s our shooter?”

“I know it is.”

All this information, all these clues and puzzle pieces, and Steve still can’t find an answer.  _ Something _ is happening: there’s a global threat, and within that global threat, members of his team are being targeted individually. He doesn’t know who he’s fighting, and even if he did, he doesn’t have the resources to stop them.

One step at a time. Just get Sam on his feet, and then get him to safety, along with Bucky and Peter.  _ Then _ fight.

Sam coughs again, clearing the blood from his throat, and stirs languidly. He’s still drifting in and out of consciousness as Bucky joins then on the ground, checking over his injuries and searching for any other evidence the assailant might have left behind.

“Did you grab my phone before we left?”

“Yeah, but there’s no service--”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly anyway. Steve pats himself down until he finds it in the back pocket of his sweats. His own cell had survived the Facility’s collapse in his front pocket - Bucky’s is mostly destroyed. Steve hadn’t noticed. He drops it into Bucky’s open hand with a dejected scoff.

Immediately, Bucky pops the back off, takes out the battery, and hands Steve the useless pieces, then bends low and slices through the first zip-tie with a razor blade.

“You carry a  _ razor  _ around in your phone?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can’t keep himself from sighing.

“I don’t have my shoes, stopped carrying the one in my cheek - what do you want?” Bucky whispers exasperatedly. 

Steve can’t even bring himself to sigh.

The moment the second zip tie snaps and Sam’s hands are free, he jolts back to wakefulness and starts swinging. Bucky has to restrain him with one arm and use his free hand to pass the razor back to Steve before Sam cuts himself. Once Sam’s vision clears and he sees Steve and Bucky bent over him, his blank expression blooms into a wide-eyed, confused grimace.

“What happened?” Bucky demands immediately. Steve offers his hand and helps Sam sit up, which seems to remind Bucky to ask whether or not Sam’s alright before they start in with the debriefing. Steve notes his apologetic frown as he braces Sam’s back. Together, the three of them struggle to their feet.

Sam blinks frantically, trying to determine if the two pairs of hands on him are friendly or hostile, and then rasps out, “ _ Steve _ ?” as if he expects the hallucination to evaporate the moment he says its name. Steve catches him by the arms as Sam fights for balance. “Steve, holy shit,” he smiles, patting Steve’s shoulders until he’s sure they’re real and solid.

“You’re okay, Sam. We’ve gotcha.”

Sam turns unsteadily to find Bucky behind him. His eyes search the empty woods around them. “Where’s Thor and--”

“Went after Vision and Wanda,” Steve replies. The short explanation will be enough for now.

“Steve, have you seen--”

“Sharon’s safe.”

“Kids?”

“Safe.” Steve will tell him the details of those situations later, once Sam can stand on his own.

Bucky catches Steve’s eye and draws it toward a wound on Sam’s shoulder - there’s a four-inch hole burnt into his t-shirt, and pink, blistered flesh exposed beneath it; raw, dirty, and seeping blood. “Sam, Jesus,” Bucky grimaces, brow furrowing with remorse. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“Where’d that bitch go?” Sam cries out, as if he’s only just remembered he was attacked. “Oh, I’m gonna kick her ass.”

Bucky’s eyes light up in the darkness. “Who? Did you see them?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers absently, still searching the trees for any sign of her. “She was following me. About a quarter-mile before I was sure. Finally got a look at her, tried to get a clean shot, and she just... _ vanished _ . Gone. Didn’t see her, didn’t hear her,  _ nothing _ , until she hit me with a stun baton,” he recounts, gesturing stiffly to his injured shoulder. “Fought hand to hand for a few minutes. She was good, I mean - Barnes, she was like  _ you. _ Fast, hits hard, doesn’t talk. Knocked the gun out of my hand and hit me upside the head with the baton. Last thing I remember.”

Steve listens closely to Sam’s explanation, but his eyes gravitate toward Bucky. The color has drained from his cheeks and his gaze is shifting nervously. Steve had felt the same sudden jolt of realization; he knows exactly which words are echoing in Bucky’s ears right now because they’re the same words playing on a loop in his own mind:  _ Barnes, she’s like  _ you.

Steve keeps his focus on Bucky, already looking for signs of recognition. He has a bad feeling. Ruth’s experience is evidence enough that Hydra is making a move. “Did you get a good look at her?”

“White, five-nine, maybe thirty years old. One sixty or a little heavier, I don’t know. Blonde hair, pretty short. Worn out tac-gear. Scar on the left side of her forehead.”

Bucky’s grim face goes slack with shock. He knows her. Steve can  _ see _ that he knows her - this is how he looks when he faces down a ghost. Whoever she is, she’s a memory he didn’t want back. The back of Steve’s neck prickles with a sharp chill. They  _ all _ want to go after her now, to track her down and get some answers. But Sam is beat to hell. Bucky is exhausted and barefoot, fighting off shock and blood loss, hurting  _ everywhere _ with the need to see his kids.

Bucky is the first to relinquish his desire for pursuit. He lets his eyes drop to the ground and abandons every thought of the familiar assailant. He gives Sam a gentle push toward Steve’s side. Steve understands the request to keep moving toward the bunker.

“Come on,” Steve says. “We’ll worry about her later.”

 

They have to move at a slower pace for the last leg of their journey. Steve supports Sam’s weight on his right shoulder; there’s a hell of a knot on the side of his head and he’s not too steady on his feet. He carries Peter the rest of the way over his other shoulder. The kid’s not unconscious anymore, but he makes no effort to move and doesn’t respond to their voices - just stares right through the world around him, terrified. Steve thinks it’ll pass; he’s seen kids Parker’s age with that same empty expression go blind and mute for a few days, and he doesn’t have the heart to ask him to shake it off and walk again. Peter’s in hell right now, but he’ll recover. Boys his age usually do.

Bucky is left to travel on his own. Steve doesn’t like it, and Sam likes it even less, but he knows the pathless parts of the woods better than they do. He limps a few yards ahead of them, leading them through the dark with total confidence, holding on to the branches and trunks when he can to take the weight off his weakened legs. Finally, Steve catches the muddy scent of the lake on the breeze. They made it back.

Bucky pushes himself harder than ever, rushing ahead as if he’s forgotten all about Steve and Sam and Peter. Steve flinches, heart aching with sympathy as Bucky stumbles down the last snowy embankment and wades heedlessly into the partially frozen lake to circumvent the perimeter alarms he’d set up. His bare, dirty feet break through the ice at the lake’s edge and frigid water splashes around him, soaking through his sweats up to the thighs. But Steve doesn’t say a word to stop him: his son and daughter are too close now, like magnets on the verge of collision. Anything Steve could say to deter him would be futile, although he has to bite his tongue when he hears Bucky’s ragged groan as he drags himself out of the water and forces his body to make the climb out of the deep lakebed. 

Sam shudders with pain as Steve leads him out into the knee-deep water. Just behind Steve, Peter’s fingers trail listlessly over the lake's surface.

“He gonna make it?” Sam pants quietly, wincing from the cold enveloping his legs.

Steve glances over his shoulder at Peter. He can’t see his face, but he can still feel him breathing, even and steady against him. He’s gotten a little better. “He’ll be alright.”

“Bucky?”

Steve makes himself smile. “He’s made it through worse. Worry about yourself.”

“Sometimes,” Sam shivers through clenched teeth, “I think  _ I _ worry more about him than you do.”

“Too busy worrying about you.”

“We don’t worry about you,” Sam grits out, hissing as he stumbles deeper into the muddy lake bed. “You do too much stupid shit.”

Bucky is twisting open the hatch that leads down into the bunker just as Steve and Sam reach him, but he stops suddenly, looking at the rifle in his hand with horrified remorse. He had  _ never _ wanted Lincoln to see him with a gun in his hand, and he’s already broken that promise once today. Sam knows - he steps forward, takes it from him, and lays it down near the bunker’s entrance, where he covers it with the dryest leaves he can find to hide it from view. Something about Bucky changes the moment it’s out of sight, like he’s parting with the killer along with the weapon.

Steve descends into the bunker first so that he can help Sam and Bucky down. He steadies Peter with one hand and slides the other down the ladder’s side. He hears the sound of drawer opening just below him, which means that Ruth has gone for one of the guns. He pauses on the ladder and calls out, “Ruth, it’s Steve.”

Her shuddering sigh of relief echoes through the bunker as he reaches the bottom. Ruth instantly lowers the Glock she’d been aiming and clutches it in her shaking hands, keeping her finger as far from the trigger as she can. “Steve - oh my God, is he dead?”

“No, but we should--”

“Panic room?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, he’s just a kid. Okay, Steve,  _ please _ take this gun, I don’t - I don’t know how to put it down right--”

“I got it,” Steve smiles. He takes the Glock and Ruth takes Peter, cradling his body in her arms as if he were a toddler.

“Where’s Lincoln?” Steve demands, eyes searching the small, dark room as he hurries back toward the ladder to help Sam down.

“Asleep,” Ruth answers.

Steve sees the lump under the blankets at the end of the bunk now. Lincoln is covered from head to toe, curled up right beside Brooklyn’s carrier. Sam slides clumsily down the last few rungs and follows Steve’s eyes to Lincoln - and then there’s no stopping him.

“Slim? Slim, oh my God--” He breaks free of Steve’s steadying grip and stumbles forward to scoop Lincoln up, blanket and all, untangling him from the nest of covers like a Christmas present.

Groggy and confused, Lincoln looks terrified and startled for a moment. “Sam?” And then he sees Steve standing nearby, smiling, and he realizes that his dad kept his promise after all, that this  _ is _ real, and joy explodes in his eyes in an instant. “Sam! You did it! Dad - Dad, you found him!” he laughs, taking Sam’s grinning face in his hands as Sam locks his arms around him. Sam doesn’t seem to be aware of his head wound or the lacerations on his wrists for the moment.

_ God _ , _ they got lucky. This could have been the end, but they survived. _ It feels unfair to experience such overwhelming gratitude in the midst of all the death he’d seen at the Facility, but right now, Steve needs to smile and be thankful. His family made it. They’re back together.

Fifteen feet above him, the hatch at the bunker’s entrance slams shut and creaks into the locked position. Bucky makes his way down slowly, just as Ruth returns from the panic room. She hears another person coming - Steve can feel her hopeful anticipation burning behind him as she presses forward, trying to see--

Her gasp of delight makes Bucky turn the moment his feet hit the concrete floor, and Steve almost laughs when Bucky’s face blooms into the most elated grin he’s ever seen. He shoves Steve away carelessly to get Ruth into his arms.

“Dad- you’re--”

“I’m okay, baby--”

“You are  _ not-- _ ”

“Are you hurt?”

“No!”

“Are you sure? You’re okay?”

“Yes--”

“You--”

“Really,” she laughs breathlessly, rubbing her hands over his back to console his frantic worry. He’s squeezing her so tightly she can barely get the words out. “I’m not hurt, Dad.”

Bucky releases her suddenly. His cheeks wash white as he sees Lincoln in Sam’s lap and the carrier on the bunk. Ruth holds him up as his knees nearly buckle underneath him. Steve knows he needs to see Brooklyn and touch her - just to be sure. Steve hadn’t been able to put her down for a long time after they’d made it out of the rubble. He lifts her carefully out of her carrier and passes her into Bucky’s open hands just as she wakes up, and envelopes them both in his arms to cradle their daughter between them.

Brooklyn is panting rapidly, kicking against their chests. All this noise and overstimulation is probably too much for her, and she’s just on the verge of fussing for food and quiet, but all they can do right now is hold her. Steve and Bucky press together, cheek-to-cheek, eyes shut, each feeling the other’s clenched jaw holding back too many useless words to count. Brooklyn moves between them like a beating heart. Steve hasn’t felt  _ alive _ since they separated in the hallway; now they both take a full, easy breath in.

They got  _ lucky _ , Steve thinks again.  _ Just _ lucky _. _ Bucky had been willing to die, and Steve had been willing to let him go, and it had been easy. Now, Steve is bitterly aware of their mortality. They could have died. Sam could have died. Lincoln and Brooklyn could have died. Steve  _ knows _ they would do it again - he’s more certain than ever that they’d sacrifice their lives to keep their kids safe, but this morning he didn’t know how painful the aftermath of that decision would be. Next time, they might not get lucky, and the fight is on their doorstep and far from over; they no longer have the choice of running. Steve supposes they’ll just have to fight harder. Stay alive. But in that moment, Steve knows this  _ will _ be his last fight.

Finally, Brooklyn wakes up and cries in earnest, loud and insistent. The sound seems to flood through Bucky like a morphine drip, and he grins and laughs and lifts her up to his shoulder, kissing her cheeks and forehead and hair. She slaps at his face and screeches unhappily as his rough stubble scratches at her skin, angrier with every passing second that she’s not being fed. Bucky keeps kissing her anyway, smiling so broadly that his eyes practically vanish into laughter lines. She doesn’t care that she nearly lost him - she doesn’t even _ know it. _ Brooklyn cries with clear lungs, her limbs don’t shake with cold as she struggles between them. She’s as strong and gorgeous and tough as when they’d fled the apartment. Her greatest misfortune is Bucky’s inconsiderate refusal to stop kissing her poor, tender head. She’s alright.

It looks like it takes all the strength left in Bucky’s body to let her go and give her back to Steve, but he needs his son just as badly. “Lincoln--” he chokes out, voice breaking. Steve feels an ache in his chest like a like a deep wound healing over.

Lincoln’s attention had been focused entirely on his godfather, and although time has dilated for Steve and Bucky, it’s still been less than a minute since Bucky’s whispered conversation with Ruth. Lincoln must have seen Bucky - he  _ must _ know he’s there - but it takes the sound of Bucky’s voice to make it  _ real  _ for him. “Papa?” Lincoln’s soft entreaty is gut-wrenching.

Steve watches him stumble off the bunk, pushed forward by Sam. Lincoln takes one step toward Bucky, but once he  _ sees _ him standing there, bleeding and injured, he stops like a prey-animal at a gunshot. Bucky either doesn’t notice Lincoln’s terror or can’t bring himself to care; he grabs his son by the arms and pulls him to his side, desperate to have him close.

Bucky’s relief is cut painfully short. Lincoln shoves his hands away so fiercely that he actually manages to break Bucky’s grip. Suddenly, Lincoln’s face is flushed and his blue eyes are on fire, fists clenched in warning: if Bucky  _ dares _ to touch him again, he’ll swing for all he’s worth. Steve has  _ never _ seen Lincoln like this. He had never imagined his little boy was capable of rage, but that’s exactly what’s written all over his face. Through all his shock and confusion, Steve moves to step between them before Lincoln actually throws a punch, but Bucky puts his hand out like he already knew this was coming.

“Lincoln,” Bucky tries again, softly this time, reaching out tentatively toward his son. There is  _ unfathomable _ remorse in his voice. Lincoln bares his teeth and slaps Bucky’s gentle hand away.

“Why did you do that?” Lincoln shouts raggedly.

Ruth averts her eyes. Sam looks on with a deep frown. Steve can’t decide whether he should admonish Lincoln or comfort him, and his indecision manifests as inaction.

“Papa, why did you do that?” he demands again, trembling like the blood inside him is boiling.

Bucky’s lips part momentarily like he might say something in his own defense, but he thinks better of it, sets his jaw, and resolutely lowers his hand. Doesn’t argue. Just listens.

“You didn’t come with us! We had to run away, and you - you wouldn’t run. I told you - I  _ told you _ to come with us and you didn’t listen!” Lincoln’s fury starts to crumble and crack, and a deep, heart-rending sob breaks through his last shout. Bucky kneels down and looks his son in the eye. Steve is almost glad he can’t see Bucky’s face right now.

“Why didn’t you  _ listen _ ?” Lincoln cries, and pushes Bucky squarely in the chest with both hands. Heavy, hot tears spill from his eyes without ever touching his cheeks and splatter into little dark circles on the concrete floor. There’s no way he could have struck Bucky with enough force to move him, and Bucky could have shown him how futile his anger is; instead, he lets Lincoln’s hands jar him. Lets himself be pushed.

“You should have - why didn’t you - you’re so  _ stupid _ !” Lincoln looks down at the blood soaking through Bucky’s dirty clothes, at his pallid skin, bruised eyelids, drenched, messy hair; at the cuts and scrapes along his arm and the ash blackening the joints of his prosthetic. “You were supposed to come with us, and you didn’t, and you  _ got hurt _ \--” Lincoln sounds like he could have gone on shouting Bucky down forever, but wracking sobs overtake his words and his reproach trails off into frustrated weeping. He stands there a few more seconds, ashamed to have let his anger concede to his fear, still trying to collect himself. Lincoln makes the mistake of risking a glance up at Steve and then meeting Bucky’s eyes again, and whatever he sees in fathers’ faces saps the last of his control. He cries himself into hysterics until Steve is aching to sweep him up into his arms and hold him.

But Bucky doesn’t reach out again: he watches and waits, white with pain, until Lincoln takes one little step forward, blind with tears, and gives him permission. Bucky’s arms encircle him slowly, gentle and welcoming, and Lincoln collapses tiredly against his papa’s chest with complete trust - tucks himself right under Bucky’s chin, lets himself be held and rocked as Bucky whispers to him, lets his heavy head rest in the cradle of Bucky’s metal hand.

“I’m sorry, Lincoln,” Bucky says quietly. He offers no defense, no excuses, and no explanation. It’s an apology with no exceptions. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Lincoln pleads, forcing the words out before the tears drown him out again.

Steve doesn’t understand whatever Lincoln gasps out after that, buried in the crook of Bucky’s arm, until he hears Bucky whisper, “I love you, too.”

 

The next few minutes are a quiet blur of activity within the bunker. Steve offers a quick briefing on their next move, rocking his daughter on his shoulder and stroking her back as he speaks: Thor should be on the way with the quinjet; grab anything useful and pack it up; get the injured to the jet first, then the bags; stay sharp and move fast because they’ve had two encounters with a shooter in the woods and she’s out to kill. Peter got hit and Tony is injured but accounted for; he’s hoping Thor got Wanda and Vision to the jet but doesn’t know their status; Bruce should be there too, but they might be riding with the Hulk and, unfortunately, Thor’s brother, Loki.

Once he’s given them all a rundown on their current situation, he pulls Sam into the narrow hallway that leads to the panic room. In low whispers, Steve tells him what happened to Sharon.

And what Sharon had  _ done _ , and what she had said after she’d regained consciousness.

Grim-faced, Sam leans on the wall for support and disappears into the panic room to speak with her. Admittedly, it worries Steve - Sharon had shot Tony, and he doesn’t trust her not to try to hurt Sam, too - but Sam had been willing to take Steve at his word that Bucky wouldn’t hurt him six years ago, and Steve knows that Sam’s faith in Sharon runs just as deep. He’s not going to interfere.

Bucky holds Lincoln until the tears subside, inspects the bruised gash on his forehead and the shallow cut spanning his stomach, and promises that they’ll both get all fixed up once they board the jet. Steve overhears him give Lincoln some very quiet, serious instructions: don’t bother Banner; don’t talk to Loki; stay away from Peter, Wanda, Vision, and anyone else that might be sick. He rises, grabs two large duffel bags off the wall, and starts packing.

“Want help?” Steve offers hopefully.

“I know where I put everything,” Bucky replies dismissively, voice breaking with exhaustion. “Get Lincoln and Brooklyn ready to go.”

Steve gets Brooklyn’s diaper changed quickly and bundles her up with two hats, two pairs of thick socks, and flannel scratch mittens from the box Bucky had kept there for her. She had almost calmed down on his shoulder, but by the time he straps her back into her carrier, she’s crying at full volume again. Steve can only pray that she’ll wear out before they leave - the noise will make them an easy target if there’s still anyone out there looking for them.

By the time Steve is done with Brooklyn, he turns around to find that Lincoln is ready to leave: he’d found a coat and a pair of shoes while Steve was gone and dressed himself without Steve’s help. The shoes look a little too small, but they’re tied neatly.

“Come here,” Steve smiles fondly. He keeps his eyes fixed on Lincoln’s, distracting his son’s gaze as he slides one of Bucky’s Glocks into his back pocket, and sits down on the side of the bunk. Lincoln perches nervously beside him, like he’s afraid there might still be consequences for his outburst earlier, but he relaxes a little once Steve hooks an arm over his sagging shoulders and pulls him against his side. With his free hand, Steve reaches into the carrier to lay his hand on Brooklyn’s belly. He rubs it soothingly, hoping to get her to quiet down until Bucky has a chance to feed her.

Together, Steve and Lincoln watch Bucky fill the two duffel bags. He fills the first bag with milk and bottles, clothes for Brooklyn, diapers, wipes, a hand-held pump, water, MREs, a fresh set of clothing for Lincoln, and clean civvies for himself and Steve. He finds a pair of socks and boots to put on. The second bag gets medical supplies, spare gear, guns, ammo, passports, cash, knives, and three burner phones. Lincoln watches him pack that one with keen fascination, and what Steve can only guess is something between admiration and horror.

“How you doing?” he asks softly. Better late than never. His left hand is still busy stroking Brooklyn’s belly - and thank  _ God, _ she’s nearly asleep - but Steve makes absolutely sure to keep his eyes focused on Lincoln. He wants Lincoln to know that he has his full attention.

“I’m okay,” Lincoln manages to answer, but it sounds weak to Steve. Just an obligatory lie he thinks he’s supposed to tell. “My head feels kind of better.”

“Well, you’re pretty tough,” Steve smiles, hoping Lincoln can hear the very real note of admiration in his voice. “But you don’t have to be okay.” Steve swallows hard, struggling past his own penchant for telling obligatory lies. “I’m not.”

Lincoln stares up at him with wide, surprised eyes, studying him as if he expects to find him physically changed in some way. “Why not?”

“I’m worried about my friends,” Steve admits. “And I’m scared.” He holds Lincoln a little tighter. “And sad. But I’ve got you and Brooklyn, and Papa and Sam. That makes me happy.”

Lincoln settles heavily against Steve’s side and reaches out to clutch the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “I wish everybody was okay. Not hurt.” In a guilty whisper, he adds, “And I really want to go home.”

Steve doesn’t have a comforting answer for that. He holds Lincoln tighter still.

“Our house and everything,” Lincoln continues, timid and weak. “I guess it’s gone?”

As much as he’d like to, Steve can’t lie to him. “Yeah. But at least we made it out alright.”

“I guess I feel like you do. I want to go back to how things were but we can’t and so now our house is gone, but I guess nobody got  _ really _ hurt. I’m happy and sad at the same time. I just miss our real house and my room and stuff.” Lincoln’s words are dwindling into sleepy rambling. “Do we have to live here, now? Or are we gonna live on the jet?”

“We’re not going to live in a bunker, buddy,” Steve laughs. He surveys the dismal concrete box and the buzzing, grate-covered flood lights lining the walls. With so many people packed into it there’s hardly room to move, now. “I think we’re going to need a bigger place, Lincoln. Maybe we’ll get a real house when this is all over.”

“Like Natalie and her mom and dad,” Lincoln sighs. He loved Clint and Laura’s old farmhouse - asked a hundred question every time they visited. He loved that there no exits with push bars and alarms, no rooms that took keycards to access, no strangers, no hallways that were forever off-limits to curious, wandering kids. He talked about that house every time they opened a picture book. He’d point out colorful places with sloping roofs and singular front doors, smile, and say,  _ Natalie lives there! _ He liked the way the families always stood in a row outside, holding hands, and the way the sun always seemed to shine right overhead. Steve wishes he could make it all come true instantly.

Right now, not even that long-discussed fantasy comforts Lincoln. Steve isn’t surprised - it doesn’t comfort him much, either.

“I’m still going to miss it.”

_ I know. God, Lincoln, I know. I brought you home to that place. That’s where I had the best days of my whole life. I remember - Bucky leaned on my arm and I carried you through the door. You weren’t even twelve hours old. We sat down on the couch and the three of us stared at each other like morons until we were all sobbing. Lincoln, we didn’t know what to do with you. We cried until we laughed. We thought your real parents were going to show up to take you home any minute. We were terrified. But we turned off our phones and locked the door, because no one was coming to get you. You were ours forever. Bucky played with your hair for an hour. You should have seen him - he couldn’t believe you were real. I’d read every baby book under the sun, but I sat down on the floor of your room and Googled “how to take care of a baby.” I walked you up and down that hallway when you cried at night. I wore the living room carpet thin from walking you in circles around the couch. That carpet has stains from the frosting on your first birthday cake.  _ Steve squeezes his son’s shoulder. “So will I.”

“Dad.”

“Yeah.”

Lincoln squirms against him, shifting uncomfortably until a final complaint finally escapes him in spite of his best efforts to contain it. “I’m  _ so _ hungry.”

Steve frowns with sudden realization and then, to his surprise, smiles an effortless smile. “Me too, buddy.”


	10. Disconnect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear is a hell of a drug.

**Disconnect**

 

Despite the jet’s silent engines, Bucky knows exactly when it arrives. Something tells him that it’s time to go. He passes the two bags of gear he’d packed to Ruth and holds out his hand toward Lincoln, who follows him up the ladder without a word.

He opens up the hatch to find both Thor and Loki waiting just outside, dark silhouettes looming against the snow-brightened winter sky. Thor reaches down into the opening and gives Lincoln a brilliant smile, then grasps both his arms and pulls him out effortlessly. “You’re bigger, boy!” he laughs sweetly, shifting Lincoln to his hip. Bucky doesn’t mind one bit if Thor carries him all the way to the jet. It’s not even a hundred yards away, but the space between the bunker and the gangway feels too open and vulnerable.

Loki helps him up the last few rungs of the ladder. Steve wouldn’t be happy if he saw that, and Bucky doesn’t trust Loki yet either, but he doesn’t have the luxury of refusing the help. The stimulant effects of whatever Loki had given him are starting to wear off. As much as he’d like to believe his own perseverance and enhancements had been enough to carry him through, Thor’s brother had saved his life.

“You look terrible,” Loki remarks casually.

“Don’t drug me again. I only just sobered up.”

“I wasn’t going to offer.”

Steve emerges with Brooklyn’s carrier on his arm a few seconds later. He gives Bucky an uneasy frown for leaning on Loki, but he keeps the more combative comments to himself this time. “Thor,” he says tightly, handing Thor the carrier and his newborn daughter. His tone is fatally serious — _keep my kids safe, keep your brother under control._

As Steve descends back into the bunker, Thor immediately heads toward the jet with Lincoln and Brooklyn. Loki and Bucky follow as fast as Bucky can manage to walk, but his last reserve of energy is nearly spent. The uneven terrain is difficult, even with someone to steady him.

Ruth overtakes them with Peter’s semi-conscious body in her arms, and Steve and Sam fall into step with them by the time they reach the gangway. Sam had taken the two duffel bags from Ruth, as well as Steve’s gym bag and shield. Steve is cradling Sharon’s body.

Bucky’s heart sinks when he sees her. Steve told him she’d been caught in the fire, but the warning does nothing to make the sight of her any more bearable.

Bucky and Sharon had become close over the past five years, despite her long absences from the Facility and her demanding work schedule. If Steve and Sam were occupied, they’d entertain themselves for long hours in the firing range or even venture into Chazy with Lincoln - Sharon’s face wasn’t well-known to the world, like Bucky’s was, and she could carry Lincoln through the shopping mall without arousing suspicion as Bucky followed a few feet behind with his gloved hands buried in his jacket pockets. They’d wander into shops together where, to Lincoln’s delight, she’d let him pick out clothes for her to try on. Lincoln’s taste wasn’t exactly refined or sophisticated, but she always bought herself something silly at his insistence and thanked him for the advice. They went to the same miniature golf course every time, where she’d helped Lincoln learn to play. She won every single game without fail, even when she gave Bucky and Lincoln a handicap. She would gloat for a few minutes, riling up Lincoln’s competitive streak, and then she’d buy them lunch to apologize. Bucky almost feels like he has one of his little sisters back.

He wasn’t prepared to see her smoke-blackened face and bloodshot eyes, or to smell her singed hair and the burnt skin of her palms.

Loki feels him flinch. “A friend of yours?” he asks quietly.

“She’s...yeah. She is.”

“Unfortunate,” Loki replies, conveying no particular emotion. To Bucky, it sounds neither sympathetic nor hopeful.

“The burns aren’t bad,” Steve promises, climbing the steep slope of the gangway alongside Bucky. “We’ll get her on oxygen. She’ll be alright.”

The cabin of the Quinjet is cramped the moment they step in.

Vision is sitting against the cargo bay wall with Wanda slumped against his side. Vision took a little damage, but Wanda looks terrible; she must have been infected, if the vacant look in her eyes is any indication, and she and Vision are both cradling her broken left arm, keeping it immobile against her body.

The Hulk is hunched over on the opposite side of the bay, trying to make himself smaller. Now that Bucky sees him in better light, it’s horrifically apparent that Banner hadn’t escaped the Facility unscathed — he’d stayed inside that lab long enough to sustain burns along his right side. His cheek and ear are blistered. Some of his hair had burnt away just above that. He keeps one huge hand cupped protectively over the wounds on his face, and he’s rocking again, either to distract himself from the pain or to keep himself from killing everyone else on the jet.

Bucky wishes he could feel nothing but sympathy for Banner, but part of him wishes he wasn’t on the jet at all — not with Lincoln and Brooklyn.

A bittersweet smile grows on Vision’s face as he looks over the eight new passengers, until his eyes settle on Ruth. “Ms. Strazds.”

Ruth pales with embarrassment. “I’m — I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“I rather knew you wouldn’t stay put,” Vision admits, glancing pointedly at Bucky, as if to imply that she comes by her recklessness honestly.

Steve and Sam turn their attention to Sharon. They get her on one of the jet’s two beds and work in tandem, starting her on oxygen and an IV, rinsing out her eyes, and treating the burns on her arms and palms. Vision rises from his seat on the floor, takes Peter’s body from Ruth, and lays him on the other bed.

Thor brings Lincoln and Brooklyn to the cockpit with him and Bucky practically has to drag Loki along to follow him — he’s understandably nervous to pass so close to Banner. Thor lets Lincoln down off his hip and sets him in the copilot’s seat. Loki helps Bucky lower himself into the jumpseat just behind his son, and then bends down toward Brooklyn’s carrier, which still hangs over Thor’s arm. Thor puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and stops him from coming any closer.

“I won’t drop her,” Loki laughs.

“You might steal her, though.”

“I am handing her to her father—”

“I’ll do it.”

Bucky has never been so tired in his life. “Loki, give me my kid. Thor, fly the jet,” he orders decisively and then, as an afterthought, adds a terse, “Please.”

“And that is her _papa_ ,” Lincoln interjects. Bucky bites his tongue. So much for _Don’t talk to Loki._

Despite any suspicions he might have about Loki or any precautions he’d promised Steve he would take, Bucky recognizes a confident familiarity in the way Loki handles a newborn. The man’s whole world seems to narrow as he lifts her out of the carrier. He doesn’t hold her long, but he does take a moment to gently brush away a little of the dirt matting her dark hair. He lifts her up briefly, letting her stretch out her legs before he settles her carefully on Bucky’s shoulder. “There,” he whispers, offering Bucky a reassuring glance. Again, he removes his cloak, and this time he uses it to cover both Bucky and Brooklyn, offering warmth and privacy on the cold, crowded jet.

Granted, Bucky was going feed her with or without privacy.

He gathers his filthy shirt up and holds it precariously under his chin. Tears prickle unexpectedly at the corners of his eyes as she latches. With a bone-deep sigh, he lets himself fall back against the hard leather of the jump seat. He doesn’t even try to stop himself from crying. His hormones won’t be back to normal for a few more months, and it’s been a hell of a day — he’s not going to beat himself up about it.

It’s unexplainably warm and dry underneath Loki’s cloak, and Brooklyn fits so perfectly between the crook of his right arm and the swell of his stomach. She’s wrapped her fingers around the thumb of Bucky’s prosthetic hand, squeezing hard and pulling it to her face like toy she needs to have close. She presses so tightly against him as she nurses that Bucky can feel every quick breath she takes through her nose and each little flutter of her eyelashes. Aches and pains from the fight and all the lingering soreness of labor seem to vanish as his milk lets down, leaving him with only hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and joy in equal measures.

Thor struggles briefly with the jet’s controls, but he manages a smooth takeoff. Bucky watches Lincoln’s hands fasten to the armrests of his seat as the jet rises.

“Lincoln, you doing alright?” he smiles, using his foot to spin Lincoln’s seat back to face him.

“Yeah,” Lincoln replies stiffly. His eyes are wide. “I really like going on the jet but I’ve never sat up here.”

“Do you want to fly it?” Thor grins, still puzzling over the primary flight display.

“No, I don’t know how because Dad won’t teach me.”

With one hand on the control wheel and the other on the throttle lever, Thor manages to guide the jet clear of the trees. “Yes, he hasn’t taught me, either,” he says through a stiff smile.

Bucky hears the steady tones of two heart monitors start back in the med-bay. Steve makes his way up to the cockpit about a minute later, having apparently done all he can do for Sharon. Bucky hasn’t seen him in full light, either — or maybe he just hasn’t looked. Steve’s hair and beard are pale with clinging concrete-dust. The same dirt coats his skin, but his sweat has made dark trails through it across his forehead and over his cheeks and temples. Looks like he’d washed the worst of it out of his eyes, too. He had changed clothes at some point — he’s wearing civvies that Bucky remembers stowing at the bunker.

Just above the collar of his shirt, Bucky can see cuts and bruises. There must be a few open wounds on his back — a little blood has seeped through the fabric of his shirt at the peaks of both his shoulder blades and just above his left hip, and through his jeans at the knees. There’s a cut on the back of his head, too — Bucky can’t see the injury, but two thick rivulets of blood have dried at the nape of his neck. His knuckles and the heels of his hands are raw, too. His left wrist looks painfully swollen.

Still, Steve is standing as straight as ever, shoulders squared, head held high, eyes sharp and alert as they assess his surroundings. He’s lost weight since last December, when he’d left for North Korea. If North Korea had looked anything like the world looks now, Bucky can see why the mission had taken such a toll on his body.

Thor seems to sense that Steve is waiting on a report. “I spoke to Stark in the hangar,” he begins, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Steve before returning his attention to the nav controls. “He found Rhodes in the other jet — infected. Stark...said it was bad,” he sighs, pausing as if he’s recalling a more specific description of Rhodey’s state. Bucky sees his eyes flicker toward Lincoln, and then he moves on. “He found Maria Hill, as well. She evacuated fourteen survivors from the east wing of the building.”

“Did he get everyone on the other jet?”

“Everyone who survived,” Thor replies quietly. “Something happened at the northwest entrance — an attack—”

“I saw,” Steve interrupts. Whatever had happened at the main entrance, Steve doesn’t want Thor to describe it in front of his son.

“Me and Ruth saw it, too.” Lincoln’s voice is unsteady, shaking with fear. Steve’s face twists minutely.

Bucky doesn’t know what they had seen, but he lifts the edge of Loki’s cloak as soon as Lincoln clambers down out of the copilot’s seat and lets him climb into his lap. Careful not to jostle Brooklyn, Lincoln settles down with his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Did he say where he was taking them?” Steve presses.

Thor shakes his head.

“I’ll contact him,” Steve decides, then steps forward to tap Thor’s arm. “I’ll fly her in manual. We should probably run it in stealth, wherever we’re going.”

Thor sighs with relief and makes a sweeping gesture toward the helm, indicating that he’s more than happy to turn it over to Steve. When he leaves the cockpit, he makes sure Loki comes with him.

Steve makes a few adjustments on the navigational computer, switching the controls over to manual — he’s flown this particular jet so often that he does all of this by touch alone. He turns and looks Bucky over appraisingly. He must notice the sweat beading on Bucky’s forehead — Bucky’s not running on endless adrenaline anymore and nursing can only provide so much pain relief. The cramps twisting in his abdomen feel more like active labor than postpartum contractions. He’s seeing fireworks.

“You guys alright back there?” Steve asks helplessly. He and Bucky both know there’s nothing to do but find somewhere safe and get there fast, but it’s in his nature to ask, all the same.

Lincoln answers before Bucky has the chance. “Brooklyn’s kicking me.”

Steve swivels his chair just enough to reach back and pat his son’s leg sympathetically. “Don’t you two start fighting,” he smiles.

“Wasn’t she just born yesterday?” Lincoln asks suddenly.

Steve checks the clock on the jet’s display. “It’s only ten-thirty. She was born early this morning.”

“Oh.” Lincoln lets his head fall back onto Bucky’s shoulder with a ragged sigh. “It’s been a really long day.”

Bucky leans down to kiss the top of his son’s head. “You can say that again.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier, Papa.”

Bucky kisses him again. “It’s okay, baby.”

“But I’m also not sorry, because I don’t take it back,” Lincoln concludes resolutely.

“You don’t have to take any of it back, Lincoln.” Bucky lays his head down, resting his bruised cheek in the softness of Lincoln’s tangled blond curls. He feels the warmth and wetness of Lincoln’s tears on his neck just before Lincoln speaks.

“I don’t even miss our old house that bad,” he says staunchly. More tears gather on Bucky’s skin as Lincoln presses his face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, like he thinks that hiding his eyes will ensure that his parents don’t catch him crying. Bucky lets him stay right where he is until he pulls himself back together — if Lincoln doesn’t want them to know he was crying, Bucky will pretend not to have seen it. The tears stop abruptly with a weak little laugh. “She’s still kicking me, Dad,” he reports.

Bucky pats Lincoln roughly, planting one more kiss on his head. “Mm. Better you than me.”

Steve takes a comm off its dock on the console and fits it into his ear as he studies the PFD. “Lincoln, better hold on, pal,” he warns.

Bucky understands the need for caution — if the military has been hit with this sickness, any airspace could be dangerous, and if the scene around the Facility was any indication, passenger planes could be just as volatile. He had guessed Steve would take them to an altitude where they’d be relatively safe from both, but the repulsor engines make the climb to sixty-five thousand feet a little too fast for Bucky’s stomach.

Lincoln throws his arms around Bucky’s neck and holds on tight as they make the steep ascent. Brooklyn goes stiff as a board in his arms — one glance under the cloak reveals that her eyes are as wide as can be.

Granted, he’s glad that they rise above the cloud cover quickly — a bird’s eye view reveals that their worst fears were founded. Every city or township as far as they can see is marked by at least one broad column of smoke, and the highways cut jagged lines through the woods, thrown into disarray by wrecked cars and desperate evacuees trying to force their way through the pile-ups. The lights of a few emergency vehicles flash far below the jet, but Bucky can’t help but think there should be more.

“Maybe you could drive instead of Dad,” Lincoln whispers unsteadily, still clinging to Bucky’s neck for all he’s worth.

“I heard that,” Steve says with a half-smile, and activates his comm. “Tony — anybody in the Dagger read me?”

Bucky holds his breath as Steve waits for an answer.

Finally, the tension in Steve’s shoulders releases and he exhales sharply with relief. “Good to hear your voice, Hill.”

Sam overhears that Steve has made contact with the other jet and makes his way to the front of the cabin. He leans on the back of the jumpseat and listens in. Lincoln turns in Bucky’s lap to look at him, and Bucky feels his son’s hands clench nervously as his eyes settle on the deep wounds on Sam’s wrists, where the zip ties had bitten into his flesh.

Steve turns back toward them, lowering his voice. “They got seventeen people out—” he relays, then pauses, listening. His eyes squeeze shut suddenly and his fingers clench around the throttle lever. “They’ve got Nat. Showing symptoms, but she's not hurt.” He pauses again, then continues his report to Hill. “Trident’s cruising at sixty-five thousand feet — where’s Tony taking us?”

Bucky watches Steve’s face carefully. He can see when Steve is holding back a frown — a muscle in his jaw twitches and he swallows down a harsher reply than the one he delivers.

“That — it’s not going to be safe there. There’s got to be—Hill?” Steve leans over suddenly, touching his earpiece. He tilts his head. “Hill, come in. _Hill_.” He turns back toward Sam, brow furrowed. He looks shaken. “I lost her.”

Sam moves forward to take the copilot’s seat that Lincoln had vacated. He opens a channel and hails the Dagger. They don’t answer. “Did it sound like something happened?”

Steve shakes his head. “There was some shouting - might have been Tony. Couldn’t make it out.”

“Where were they headed?”

Steve scoffs. “Tower.”

“He wants us in Manhattan? Now?” Sam asks incredulously. “He knows that’s going to be Pyongyang times ten, right?”

Steve doesn’t reply. His fingers are stiff and hesitant as he enters the coordinates into the nav computer.

Sam sighs heavily. “Guess we’re just going to go there and see if they made it?”

“Unless they make contact again,” Steve reasons grimly, “it’s about all we can do.”

“Probably just interference,” Sam suggests. He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but he knows Steve needs to hear something reassuring.

Steve nods tightly. “I’ll keep the line open.”

Just behind Bucky’s jumpseat, Ruth clears her throat. “Here are your bug-out bags from your doomsday bunker,” she says bluntly, setting them down by his feet. “Did I hear that correctly? Manhattan?”

Bucky glances up at her and nods.

“I just got _out_ of Manhattan,” she chuckles humorlessly.

Bucky thinks Tony’s call is absolutely right, although he’s too tired to reason with Sam and Steve over it. Those two are always keen to debate strategy and what’s worse, they almost always agree. As far as Bucky is concerned, everywhere will be dangerous — at least the Tower is relatively secure. There are medical facilities for their wounded, too — including him.

He’s almost afraid to have someone look him over. Loki says he stopped the bleeding, but he knows that fighting the Hulk less than a day after delivering Brooklyn won’t come without consequences. He expects there will some internal damage, but he can’t bring himself to think about the potential extent of that damage. Not while he was still clinging to the idea of having more children.

He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him a few of his ribs are cracked. The sharp pain in his chest and back flares as he moves Brooklyn to his other side. Lincoln only makes it worse as he shifts yet again, turning so he can see Ruth.

“Hey, you have to come live with us when we find a new house,” Lincoln says abruptly. He sounds completely serious.

“I think we’d have to discuss that a little more with Dad and Papa,” she smiles evasively.

Bucky had been drifting closer to sleep by the second as exhaustion closed in on him, but hearing Lincoln speak to Ruth with such familiarity strikes him like lightning.

Lincoln doesn’t give Bucky the opportunity to begin the conversation on his own terms, either. He sits up in Bucky’s arms, effectively trapping him in the jumpseat. “If Ruth is my big sister, why, um—why did we never visit her? Or talk about her?”

Bucky feels Steve’s back stiffen all the way over in the pilot’s chair. Sam turns and catches his eye, offering no help — just adding to the tension Bucky already feels. Worst of all, Ruth’s expression is just as expectant as Lincoln’s. As understanding as she is, Bucky knows her opinion on this issue all too well. Strazds had always been honest with her about her history, and she was thankful for it. Although she would never say so, it’s always been apparent that she thinks Lincoln is entitled to the same honesty from his own father.

“Papa?”

Steve takes a breath in to say something, probably intending to distract his son or shut down the conversation entirely, but Bucky finds the will to stop biting the inside of his cheek and answer just before Steve has the chance to rescue him. “It’s a long story, Lincoln,” he says. The words feel like a first step that won’t allow him a retreat. “I’ll — I’ll tell you all about it. As soon as things settle down. I’m sorry for not telling you before. It’s complicated and—” He stalls for a moment, and then feels his eyes shift unintentionally toward Ruth as he speaks. He’s not sure if he’s apologizing or hoping for her approval. “And it’s not easy for me to talk about.”

Lincoln not only accepts Bucky’s answer, including his request to wait a little longer before they have the conversation, he smiles. He seems sympathetic. Understanding. _Loving_ in such a grown-up way that Bucky can hardly believe he’s not looking at Steve. “Sometimes stuff is hard to talk about,” he says simply, radiating forgiveness. “It’s okay.” A thought crosses his mind and suddenly he’s a five year old again, fidgeting and squirming as he pieces a sentence together one word at a time. “Like — remember when I almost hit Dad with a baseball last summer?”

A weak laugh breaks through Bucky’s body like a wrecking ball through concrete. “Yes. I do.”

“And I just — I had that thing that was hard to talk about, that I didn’t want to tell you.”

“What? That you actually threw it at _me_ because you were mad I got pregnant?”

Lincoln pitches forward to hide his face in the crook of Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t talk about it in front of Ruth, Papa, please.”

Ruth smiles down at them, shaking her head in light-hearted admonishment over the baseball incident. “Lincoln, you were so brave today, I think you more than made up for throwing one little baseball,” she laughs.

“Oh, he made up for that already,” Bucky promises.

Lincoln raises his head to nod. “I couldn’t play with anything electronic for a week and I had to fold laundry.” When Ruth doesn’t look appropriately horrified by that, he adds, “Which is what I hate doing the most.”

Ruth groans suddenly, collapsing into the jumpseat beside Bucky. “Oh, God. All that stupid stuff I dragged up here,” she realizes. She sweeps her dark hair out of her face and scratches at her scalp, shaking a little dust off her head. “I left it all in that rental car back at the Facility. Jesus.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky assures her, knowing exactly what has her so worried over it.

“But—it’s—I mean, if someone _found_ that, they’d know about everything that Hy—”

“Seriously,” Bucky interrupts her, trying to blunt the sharp edge in his voice with a smile. “It’s okay. It’s the last thing on my mind.”

“Ms. Strazds,” Vision calls out abruptly, carefully disentangling himself from Wanda as he rises. “I’m so sorry to have startled you. Since your luggage contained sensitive documents, I removed it from your car when I came back to find you. I was forced to pursue Wanda, so I hid your boxes in one of the vacant security stations. Fortunately,” he smiles, finally coming to his point, “I was able to retrieve everything en route to the hangar.” He points toward the racks above the storage lockers on the opposite wall. The gesture is reserved, but Bucky thinks Vision would have rather made a sweeping flourish. The two boxes are strapped securely into place and neatly repacked.

Ruth claps her hands together, nearly teary-eyed with relief. “Oh my God,” she laughs. “I thought I’d — Vision, you’re a gift.”

As far as Vision’s capabilities go, remembering to collect those boxes in the heat of the moment wasn’t what Bucky would call shocking, but Ruth hasn’t known him long — she’s still impressed with every little thing he does. Vision looks like he’d blush, if he could. “Yes, thank you,” he replies too quickly.

Ruth sinks back into the jumpseat. Her smile lingers oddly on her face, like she’d pasted it on and forgotten to remove it once it had served its purpose. She stares at her filthy boots on the seat’s footrests, looking right through them and everything else.

“You doing alright?” Bucky asks gently.

Ruth inhales, grasping for words, but comes back empty handed. Instead, she summarizes her answer with a soft, rasping laugh and a slow shake of her head. Bucky nods. He hope she knows how thoroughly he empathizes.

Underneath the warm cloak, he feels Brooklyn stretch and yawn, squirming restlessly. She’d probably eaten twice as much as she’d needed, but she’s had a hell of a time in her first twenty-one hours — if overfeeding her a little keeps her calm for the time being, Bucky will gladly throw the guidance of every parenting book he owns right out of the jet’s airlock. He pulls her up to his shoulder, gathering Loki’s cloak up to pillow her head.

Loki had opened up an alien portal to destroy Manhattan. Bucky figures Brooklyn can spit up on his cape if she wants to.

Hell. Steve would probably get a kick out of it.

* * *

 

 

_Manhattan._

Steve has spent the last ten minutes silently repeating the city’s name over and over, feeling a little more bitter every time.

Manhattan, in the middle of a pandemic — a pandemic with symptoms including sudden, reckless suicide and brutal mass killings. Every car, every tall building, every armed officer could mean death for countless people.

Maybe the Tower will be secure. Maybe they’ll be safe there.

_But we weren’t safe at the Facility._

Steve reviews every placating advantage of reconvening with the rest of the team at Stark Tower and disassembles them one by one. Tony doesn’t want safety — he wants a tactical edge.

Three hours ago, Steve had been ready to abandon his team and run.

An hour ago, he couldn’t wait to find the son of a bitch who’d set all this in motion.

Now, he’s paralyzed somewhere between those two absolutes. Fight or flight are his only options. Both are difficult. Neither are right.

He needs time to think.

“Vision,” he calls out, shocked to hear how rough and broken his own voice sounds. “Could you—”

Apparently, Vision doesn't have any trouble interpreting the signs of total exhaustion. He strides forward immediately, pats Steve’s back, and takes the con without a word.

Manhattan. Steve supposes they'll be there before long, whether he likes it or not.

He hardly realizes that he's wandering away from the cockpit with no explanation — he's too busy rubbing the pervasive burn of smoke out of his eyes. Behind him, Sam grunts with effort as he pulls Lincoln into his lap. Bucky struggles out his seat a moment later, following Steve toward the back of the jet. He can hear Brooklyn whining plaintively — she sounds like she wants to cry, but Bucky's hand keeps a steady, soft rhythm against her back. It comforts Steve just as much as it comforts her.

"You shouldn't be walking," Steve reminds him automatically. It feels patently stupid to tell him that, after what he'd put his body through earlier that day. Bucky keeps walking alongside him and doesn't bother to respond. He seems to know that Steve's warning is nothing but an empty habit — the damage that a few steps could cause him is inconsequential compared to taking on Banner and the shooter.

"The woman. The one in the woods." Steve hadn't mentioned the shooter aloud, but Bucky somehow knows he's thinking about her all the same. "You remember what Sam said about her?"

Steve lets himself fall heavily onto one of the shallow seats by the cargo bay doors. Bucky sits down next to him, sliding one hand down the curved wall to support himself and holding Brooklyn in the other. She fusses and cries as soon as he stops patting her back and doesn't stop until his metal hand resumes its task. Steve should offer to take her and give Bucky a rest, but even with all his enhancements, his arms are too tired. They've been shaking since Ruth dug him out of the rubble. "Yeah. I do."

"I know I sound crazy, Steve. I do," Bucky says under his breath. His eyes are distant, and Steve can almost see his mind working to resolve Sam's words into a clear picture. Steve knows what Bucky wants to say, but Bucky seems to balk at the last second. When he finally continues, his voice is low and unsteady. Fearful. "I think I know who she is."

They both know, although their suspicions have separate origins. They’re both starkly aware that Sam’s description matches a member of the Wolfpack — right down to the addition of the scar from Zemo’s bullet. Bucky had fought her — only briefly, long-range, and in the dark; but if Bucky had trained her, he would recognize the marks he’d left. He would be able to identify his own tactics in an instant. Bucky’s intuition is almost enough to convince Steve of the shooter’s identity, in spite of the bullet-hole he’d seen with his own eyes and the demolition of the lab that once housed the Wolfpack. Steve knows better than to underestimate the physical capabilities of an enhanced agent, but there are other factors — still unknown to Bucky — driving Steve toward the same conclusion.

“Zemo died this morning.”

Bucky’s eyes meet Steve’s, but his expression remains remarkably even. “How?”

“Looked like suicide.”

The tight line of Bucky’s lips twists as he bites his tongue. Finally, he distills what must be a thousand conjectures into a single, solid conclusion. “It wasn’t suicide.”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t think so, either.” It takes all of Steve's willpower to sit up straight, but if he keeps slouching with his head in his hands for another minute, he thinks he’ll turn to stone and stay there forever. "You think she did all of this? You said they were..." He trails off. "Do you think she’d be capable of what we're seeing?"

Bucky shakes his head. "They were never trained to act without orders. They had handlers from the day they were born." Bucky's voice falters over the last few words. His right arm wraps a little tighter around Brooklyn.

"From what you told me, they got put back in stasis _because_ they started acting on their own."

"They were volatile after the serum," Bucky reasons. "This attack is — it's not her." He sounds almost desperate for Steve to believe it. "Someone just figured out how to use her," he says firmly. "They're just using her."

Steve wishes he could say something comforting, but what is there to say?

_At least she’s alive, even if someone is torturing her, just like you were tortured._

Or, _Maybe it’s not her. Maybe your daughter died when Zemo shot her between the eyes._

There’s nothing to say.

“Buck — I don’t know what to do.” The words claw their way out of his throat before he can stop them. His jaw aches and his temples throb. His eyes feel hot.

Bucky’s gaze suddenly seems hard and unforgiving. “We’re going to fight,” he reminds him firmly. “And we're gonna win. We have to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Steve laughs. He doesn’t care to have his own words thrown back at him right now. Bucky sounds so worn down. There’s an edge to his voice that Steve had always been afraid to hear. Like he’s finally realized that Steve never did get any stronger or better or smarter. He’s still that same stupid kid, underneath the uniform and the serum. The one that needs to be cared for. Indulged. Watched over. Saved.

“You could’ve quit the team five years ago. It’s not like Tony didn’t give you the chance. But you didn’t.”

“Maybe I made a mistake.”

“Get over it, Steve,” Bucky sighs. He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in him. “We’re in up to our necks, here. You don’t get to walk away.”

“I — I’m _tired_ , Bucky. Eleven fuckin’ years, and they haven’t let me rest. I went to sleep in the middle of a war and I wake up — and there’s another war. Every time we win one, they start a dozen more.” He pauses, remembering the war he’d _wanted_ to fight, everything he’d done to get to the front lines — he regrets it now. And he _misses_ it. He misses the happier days of ignorance, before he knew what war was; when war meant saving lives and doing what was right, even if it meant giving his life.

Now, war means blindly throwing his five year old son away from a collapsing building. It means jerking Lincoln’s arm hard enough to bruise to force him to let go of Bucky’s hand in the hallway.

 _War_ is listening to his sixteen hour old baby struggle to scream between agonized coughs, knowing that at any moment, that pitiful, gut-wrenching sound could dwindle into calm silence in the dark.

“We could take them to Wakanda,” Steve says almost dreamily. “Maybe — it might be safe there…”

“Not for long. Not if they lose because you ran away,” Bucky says evenly, inclining his head up toward the cockpit.

Steve turns, ready to argue, to tell Bucky in no uncertain terms that this isn’t about _them_ , it’s about their _children_ and the fact that they can’t be on the front lines of this battle — not when Hydra could be involved, not when the illness they’ve been fighting could strike an infant just as fast as it could a soldier. The rebuke catches in his throat as he pulls in a gasp of cold air.

There’s no color left in Bucky’s face except the darkness of broken blood vessels around his eyes. His lips are pale. He’s shaking between quick, shallow breaths. Steve springs up and then kneels in front of him, hands feverishly searching for a task, for _some way_ to help. Blood has pooled in the seat underneath Bucky. A few dark droplets have spilled onto the floor.

“Sam!” Steve shouts. “Sam, we need help.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky insists. “I’ll be alright until we get to the Tower.”

“The hell you will.” Steve reaches out to take Brooklyn as Sam arrives at their side, but Bucky won’t let her go.

“Steve, _stop_ , I said I’m fine.” His voice sounds fainter by the second. More blood spills over the edge of his seat as he shifts, struggling to keep Brooklyn in his arms.

“Buck, if you pass out, you’re going to drop her — just let me—”

“Stop. _Stop._ ”

Steve feels his face crumble with guilt, but he doesn’t give up on trying, as gently as he can, to lift Brooklyn off of Bucky’s shoulder. “Baby, it’s okay. Just for a second. You gotta let Sam help you—”

“Don’t touch her — don’t. No, don’t take her — don’t you fucking _touch her—”_

The back of Bucky’s metal fist makes a shallow arc through the air and connects with Steve’s temple hard, knocking him sideways.

Thor and Sam react instantly. Bucky thrashes, but Thor gets a grip on his prosthetic and pins it to his side as Sam tries to force him back into the seat. Together, they manage to keep him still. He stops fighting and begs.

“ _Please—_ ” he chokes out. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this, please, Steve, don’t, _don’t—”_

Steve doesn’t hear the shrill tone at first — Bucky’s shouts and cries and Brooklyn’s frightened wails are too loud. He ignores it — focuses all his attention on talking to Bucky, trying to keep him calm — but then a jolt of panic ripples through him like a shockwave. He listens to it. He looks around the cabin.

The heart monitors on Parker and Sharon — _no, they’re still attached. They’re still beeping. They’re fine._

It’s the altitude warning.

His stomach twists. His body becomes light and his hands begin to rise weightlessly.

Freefall. He remembers this feeling. Like it was yesterday.

Jet’s going down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're right on the verge of solving this mystery, aren't they? Here's a fun clue...someone on the team already knows EXACTLY what's going on. Case solved. They know what the attack is, and they know who's doing it. Let's throw another wrench in there, just for fun: it's not Tony, Hill, or Sharon.
> 
> And after the next two chapters...you'll know, too! :D


	11. Over and Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT PSA: I highly recommend rereading the final scene of Chapter 10 before proceeding. It has some important information in it!

“Buck — I don’t know what to do.”

Bucky has never heard Steve sound so hopeless. He doesn’t think Steve sees him flinch, but he can’t help it. God, it _hurts_ to hear that man’s voice break.

Bucky lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “We’re going to fight. And we're gonna win,” he smiles. Steve’s words sound a little less inspiring when he says them, but he’ll never have Steve’s gift for rousing speeches. He hopes his sincerity counts for something. “We have to.”

Bucky leans over, switching Brooklyn to his other shoulder so he can put his arm around Steve. She squirms a little once his hand leaves her back, but she’s sleepy and full now. She seems willing to share Bucky’s attention with her father.

Steve takes a few deep, rattling breaths through his folded hands, face flushing deep red. A vein stands out on his temple, pulsing steadily.

When Steve cries, it’s never more than a few tears accompanied by a bright blush on his lips and nose. Usually, his tears are reserved for joy. His sadness, anger, and despair have always been silent and fleeting. But tonight, after all he’s been through in the course of a single evening, the pain lingers long enough to wring a sob out of him.

“It’s okay,” Bucky soothes him, running his hand along the length of Steve’s spine. “Just let it go, Steve. You’re okay.”

Steve gives in and leans on him. Bucky kisses the top of his head, smiling because he’s never kissed Steve like that before, but it always makes Lincoln feel better and Bucky can’t help but wonder if it works for his dad, too.

Steve has kept so much inside, hidden — now that he’s let himself cry, Bucky isn’t surprised to find a deep river behind the dam. He sits with him and holds him, knowing Sam is keeping Lincoln distracted in the cockpit.

It takes almost five minutes before Steve stops shaking.  Even when the sobs stop, he doesn’t seem to have the energy to speak.

“We ought to be landing soon,” Bucky whispers, squeezing Steve’s shoulder bracingly. “You alright?”

Steve doesn’t reply. The corded muscles of his back are rigid under Bucky’s fingers.

Suddenly, he sits up straight. Looks like he heard a gunshot. He rises, takes a step forward and looks around the cabin.

Bucky’s not sure Steve can _see._ His eyes flicker over empty spaces in the room. His lips move slowly, forming silent words.

“Steve?”

He doesn’t hear him.

Bucky should have known. _Goddamnit,_  he should have realized.

He’s sick.

“Sam!” Bucky shouts. “Sam, we need help.”

Sam hurries toward the back of the jet, motioning for Lincoln to stay in the cockpit, but as soon as he sees Steve and begins to read the situation, he slows his approach. He raises both his hands cautiously, gentling his voice and gaze, making no sudden movements. Behind Steve, Thor rises quietly and advances, careful to stay in his blind spot.

“Hey, man,” Sam says softly, projecting nothing but calm sympathy, even though they all know how quickly this could get ugly. If Steve loses control while they’re all trapped on this jet, there’s no guarantee that Banner won’t react. Bucky adjusts his grip on Brooklyn, legs tensed to spring up and run if he has to. There are places to hide in the cargo bay, but if Bruce gets violent, his options are limited — he’d have to grab Lincoln and a parachute.

“Steve,” Sam tries again, moving in closer and reaching out as Steve continues to stare right through him, mumbling incoherent words into the tense air. “Where are you at right now? You with me?”

“Bleeding,” Steve says abruptly in a plain, clear voice that doesn’t quite sound like it belongs to him. “Still bleeding.”

Suddenly, he turns toward Bucky and his blown pupils settle and focus for a moment. His breathing becomes ragged and irregular. “Buck — you—” He pitches forward, catching himself against Bucky’s knees, and too quickly, too insistently, he tries to slide his hands underneath Brooklyn to take her off Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky lays his hand on Steve’s wrist. Steve pushes him away and tries again to take her. This time, Bucky shoves him back. Steve is moving like he’s blackout drunk and his face is a mask of equal parts horror and rage — and determination.

“Steve, stop.” Bucky’s warning is instant and razor sharp. Sam and Thor plant themselves on either side of him like a barrier. Sam puts a protective arm between Steve and Brooklyn; Thor places a hand on each of Steve’s shoulders and tries to coax him back.

“Just let—” Steve slurs frantically. “Just let me—”

“ _Stop._  Don’t touch her, Steve—”

Steve’s hand darts past Sam’s arm and hooks under Brooklyn’s belly again, but this time he’s too rough, and Thor doesn’t take action quickly enough.

Bucky’s metal fist connects with Steve’s temple and spares no force. Steve’s neck twists and his body turns in a tight arc before he hits the ground hard, dazed and groaning senselessly.

Banner growls deep in his chest and rises. His heavy footfalls make the Quinjet rock.

With neither thought nor hesitation, Sam places himself between Bruce and the rest of the cabin. “Hey, you’re alright,” he promises, looking him right in the eye.

Thor takes a defensive stance between Bucky and Steve. The metallic whisper of his hammer cuts sharply through the air and finds his open palm like a magnet. He’s prepared to incapacitate Steve completely.

Every conscious person on the jet is on their feet now, ready to take action if they have to, and their eyes are all trained on Steve. This is more than a potentially dangerous problem now — it’s a fight.

“We’re landing,” Vision calls out urgently.

Another minute tops, and at least they’ll be out of the air.

Steve drags himself up off the ground, hands cupped over his ringing ears. Panic seems to overtake him without warning. “No — no, no, no,” he chants, stumbling toward the cockpit.

Thor grips his hammer tighter. “Vision,” he warns.

Ruth steps forward, blocking his access to both Lincoln and the jet’s controls. Steve rushes at her, desperate to reach the cockpit.

Wanda raises her unbroken arm and throws him back hard and fast, but he rolls and he’s on his feet again in an instant, running for the stick.

Loki stops him this time with a quick sweep of his foot, but Steve takes hold of it. Strikes his kneecap with a closed fist. Gets up. Swings for his face, but connects with nothing but smoke.

Even in this state, Steve knows how to fight — muscle memory takes over and the moment Loki rematerializes behind him, his elbow strikes for ribs. Loki disappears again and reappears instantly at his side. He catches Steve by the finger of his left hand and twists, but Steve turns his body in time and doesn’t go down. His forehead connects with Loki’s mouth with a wet thud.

Sam makes the mistake of taking his eyes off Banner. When Steve leans back to get a second hit in on Loki, he clotheslines himself on Sam’s forearm as it locks around his neck. Sam’s boot drives into the back of Steve’s knee.

Steve is fighting like a frightened animal. Sam doesn’t have a chance. He buckles at the waist and reaches back, grabs Sam by the arm and jerks — flips him over his shoulder and throws him onto the floor. Brings his fist down.

It doesn’t connect. Wanda throws him again. Straight upward. Steve hits the ceiling.

The air in the cabin vibrates as Banner roars — he can’t watch this and stay out of it, not when the team has spent years training him to have their backs in a fight, not when Loki has stepped into the fight. Sam scrambles to his feet, hands raised pleadingly as he shouts for Banner to hold it together, but Banner swats him out of the way and sends him skidding across the floor of the cabin.

Just like that, they’ve hit the worst case scenario.

Vision is bringing them in fast. Bucky doesn’t think it will be fast enough.

Thor stays between the Hulk and Brooklyn. If he moves, he leaves them unguarded. Loki is the only one between Steve and the cockpit, and Steve’s fighting him with everything he’s got, and Loki now has to contend with both Steve’s fists and elbows as well as the Hulk’s madly grasping hands.

Ruth ends it in an instant. She dives for the pile of bags by her jumpseat, takes the shield, shouts desperately, “Steve!” And when Steve reaches out to take the shield he so badly needs, she gives it to him with both hands, first under the jaw, and then right across the bridge of his nose.

He drops. Hard.

But Banner’s arm is already raised for a wide swing and he never knows when a fight is over. Ruth is an easy target right now; she’s a perfect stranger attacking his teammate.

Lincoln scrambles out of the cockpit on his hands and knees, like he’s trying to reach Steve, unwittingly putting himself in the path of the Hulk’s strike. Thor raises his hammer and Bucky shoots up out of his seat with Brooklyn held tight against his shoulder. He will tear Bruce apart with one hand if he has to. His son _will not die_  on this jet.

“ _Stop it!_ ” Lincoln screams shrilly.

_Jesus Christ, he wasn’t trying to run._

Lincoln didn’t want to get to Steve or Bucky.

_He’s shouting down the Hulk._

Banner freezes mid-swing, stumbling backward just before the back of his massive hand crashes into Lincoln. The surprise only deters him for a moment. He starts forward aggressively.

_And so does Lincoln._

“I said stop!” He pushes the Hulk’s fist away with both hands. He doesn’t make it move, but Banner withdraws it, baring his teeth in confusion. Lincoln points his finger toward Sam, who’s still struggling to get back on his feet after colliding with the leg of medbay table. “Look what you _did_! You hit Sam!”

Bucky can’t remember how to feel anything but fear. He tries to run forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by Thor. Thor shakes his head frantically, begging him not to make a sudden movement. He’s right. Bucky doesn’t even allow himself to breathe.

“Don’t _ever_ hit Sam!”

Banner makes a low, argumentative whine. Lincoln pushes his arm again. The Hulk unclenches his fist and pushes Lincoln back experimentally. He’s not aiming to hurt him, but he’s not gentle, either. Lincoln stumbles a little, but he doesn’t back down. He walks forward, right up to Banner, and shoves him right under the ribs with both hands. “Quit it.”

The Hulk sits down. No one on the jet dares take a breath yet.

“It’s okay, Hulk,” Lincoln says quietly. He turns his back on the Hulk like he has a goddamn death wish and sits down too close to him. “Just tell — just say you’re sorry when you can talk again.”

Vision breaks the long, shocked silence that follows. “We’ve landed.”

* * *

 

Bucky pays no attention to the shouted orders and questions coming from the tarmac. He waits inside the Quinjet, grinding his teeth, feeling the burn on his face growing hotter by the second.

They coax the Hulk out of the cargo bay doors.

They bring Sharon, Peter, and Steve out on stretchers. Sam tries to get him out of the jet with the everyone else who’s in need of medical attention, but Bucky shakes his head wordlessly.

Vision walks alongside Wanda, Thor escorts Loki, and Ruth helps Sam down the steep gangway.

Finally, Lincoln, Bucky, and Brooklyn deboard the jet.

Bucky walks quickly in spite of the cramps twisting through his pelvis and back, body surging with adrenaline as he drags Lincoln down the ramp by the arm. Lincoln’s feet barely touch the ground until they’re out on the tarmac, where Bucky drops him like a bag of garbage.

Still clutching Brooklyn to his shoulder, Bucky kneels down, takes Lincoln’s jaw in his right hand, and pulls him forward. Their faces are close enough that he can already see the beginnings of frightened tears beading up in the corners of Lincoln’s eyes as he stares down in total shock, trying to see Bucky’s hand. He’s only ever felt it as a kind touch.

It’s not _kind_ anymore.

Words hiss through his teeth like escaping steam. “You look at me _right now_.”

“Papa—”

“What were you thinking?” Bucky whispers. His voice has become a knife. He allows his son a few seconds to respond, but he’s got him scared into speechless stillness. Bucky gives him a hard shake that makes Lincoln’s face wash white with terror. “ _Lincoln, what the fuck were you thinking?_ ” he roars. His voice breaks over the words. He knows the others will hear him and see nothing but the rage and instability they’d always feared would one day be turned on his children. He knows exactly what they must be thinking: _We tried to tell Steve he was dangerous_. He doesn’t care.

Lincoln cries instantaneously. Bucky has never raised his voice like this. He’s never put his hands on him like this. Lincoln has never seen him this angry. Not even close.

“Papa—” he stammers. “What — what did I do—”

“What did I say?” Bucky grits out. “Huh? What did I say to you before we got on the jet?” Lincoln breathes faster, panicking. “ _Tell me what I said to you._ ” Bucky yells so loud his voice echoes off the metal landing pad under their feet. His voice almost drowns out Brooklyn’s needy cries.

“Not to — don’t wander off—”

“What else?”

“Not to talk to—”

“To Loki _. And you did it anyway._ What else?”

Lincoln cries. Bucky waits. “To not talk to Bruce,” he manages, forcing out each word in a gasp. Bucky is still gripping his son’s jaw, but it’s getting slick with tears.

Bucky lowers his voice. It’s raw from shouting. “And you did that, too.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Do you even know—” Bucky swallows down the knot in his own throat. He doesn’t feel himself crying, and yet tears are falling from his eyes, striking his wrist and the ground like fat raindrops. “Do you know how bad that scared me?”

“But I — I helped you guys—”

Bucky leans in closer. Lincoln tries to shrink away, but he doesn’t let him. “Thor does not need your help. Sam does not need it. I don’t need it, your dad doesn’t need it. You are _five years old_ , Lincoln. If you see something dangerous, you _hide_. You run away. You _do not help._ Do you understand me?”

“I—”

“ _Do you understand me?”_

“Yes!” Lincoln sobs. He grips Bucky’s wrist with fear-chilled fingers. “Papa — you’re hurting me — where my tooth came out.”

Bucky releases him immediately. Wraps his arm around him and pulls him close, cradling him right next to Brooklyn against his chest. “I’m sorry, baby,” he shudders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lincoln is limp in his grasp, trembling, hyperventilating. Finally, he leans into Bucky’s embrace and clutches weakly at his shirt. “You — you’re not — mad at me?”

“Oh God, I’m still mad at you,” Bucky replies without hesitation. He can’t catch his breath. “I’m more mad at you than I’ve ever been at anybody in my life. But it’s because —  I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s because I love you so much.”

Lincoln is incapable of replying, but he clings tighter to Bucky, pressing his wet face into the collar of his papa’s shirt. Maybe he knows, somewhere under his fear and distress, that they’ll eventually forgive each other for this moment — even if it can’t be right now.

Brooklyn shivers through a long wail. Bucky stands, gathers the cloak over her head and face to keep her safe from the biting January wind, and takes his son’s hand in his. “Come on,” he says. There’s no emotion left in his voice. “Let’s go find Dad.”

 

Vision meets them at the door with a wheelchair. “Ms. Potts was able to make contact with Director Fury,” he says, offering Bucky his hand and helping him sit down. “He brought a small team of doctors and agents here to help — it looks as if this will be our command post for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to reach Ms. Potts since then.”

Bucky pulls Lincoln into his lap beside Brooklyn. His son settles in obediently without a word. He’s still crying, but he knows better than to question anything that Bucky asks of him right now and Bucky wants him close, even if Lincoln is still too hurt to seek that closeness.

Vision pushes the chair swiftly through the expansive atrium, past the glass-walled meeting rooms and elegant furniture. Just above them, at the end of a huge, curved staircase and a broad catwalk that circles the room over their heads, they can see the dark windows of Tony’s lab.

Vision had fallen silent, predictably uncomfortable with shouting over the two crying children in Bucky’s arms, but Lincoln is starting to calm down. Vision reaches over Bucky’s shoulder to touch the boy’s back. Bucky hears his soft, uncannily human laugh when Lincoln raises his tear-flushed eyes. “Lincoln, look.” He points up toward the empty laboratory. “That’s where I was born.”

Lincoln scrubs at his eyes with the back of his arm and the heels of his hand. He hates for other people to see him cry now that he’s getting older. Bucky thinks fleetingly that one of these days, he should find time to tell him that it’s nothing to be ashamed about. Lincoln tips his head back to see the lab as they pass under its clear glass floors. He looks back to Vision as they reach the elevators. “How old are you?”

“Seven,” Vision decides. “I’ll be eight this year.”

Lincoln slides down out of Bucky’s lap as the elevator doors open so he can grip the handrails in the elevator. The doors slide shut. “You’re the same age as my friend Nathaniel.”

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks quietly. He’s been watching the floors count down from seventy-seven. The touchscreen that occupies the usual place of numbered buttons shows a labeled diagram of the Tower from Sublevel-10 through the penthouse on the 93rd floor. They’ve bypassed the set of floors marked _Health and Wellness_ , as well as the Avengers’ old operations center.

“There are additional medical facilities on sublevel-2...as well as containment facilities,” Vision replies.

Bucky assumes that the containment facilities will be for anyone showing symptoms. That’s where they’ll have taken Steve. “Where’s everybody else?” he presses. The elevator is falling fast. Brooklyn is fussing and Lincoln’s knuckles are white on the handrail. “If Steve’s sick — one of us should be at the briefing.”

“Given the number of casualties we’ve suffered,” Vision sighs, sounding strangely tired for someone who doesn’t feel fatigue, “Director Fury found the most expedient option was to hold the briefing _on_ sublevel-2.”

They both feel the weight of that statement. The whole goddamn team’s out of commission, right when the world needs them. Vision seems to think that adding another thought will lighten the mood. “Otherwise, Thor and I would be the only ones there.” He’s quick to abort his ill-placed attempt at humor; the smile coloring his voice fades swiftly as he speaks. He reaches out to lay a tentative hand on Lincoln’s shoulder, changing the subject and relying on his usual sincerity, instead. “What you did on the Quinjet was very brave, Lincoln. Thank you.”

Bucky shuts his eyes, shaking his head minutely and hoping Vision picks up on the silent cue. Lincoln’s face twists into a complicated mixture of relief and resentment as his jaw drops. He struggles for words, unable to choose between telling Vision _Thank you_ or _No, it wasn’t,_ or shouting a triumphant _I told you so._ He ends up clamping his mouth shut resolutely in defeat.

Now that his third attempt at making conversation has failed, Vision does the same.

 

The elevator doors open to reveal a chaotic scene.

Sublevel-2 is a single, expansive hall, except for the wall to their left, which is lined with high-security holding cells, and the far end, which is divided into two large rooms and two small rooms. One of the large rooms is an OR. The other contains rows of beds. The smaller two seem to be part of the small medical wing as well, but Bucky can’t see inside them.

The wall to their right has only one partitioned area: an empty, circular glass enclosure. They had a similar space in the Facility — Tony had constructed them as safe-rooms under Bruce’s adamant direction, but it’s been a long time since they’ve had to use them for their intended purpose. The rest of the right-hand wall is filled with neatly stacked pallets of emergency supplies.

In bleak contrast to the lavish design of the rest of Stark Tower, this place is both a fallout shelter and prison. The look of it makes Bucky feel anxious and sick, but he couldn’t be more thankful to Tony for having built it.

There are more people there than just their team and the other survivors from the Facility: in addition to Fury’s crew, there are around a hundred civilians. Bucky guesses that they were in Stark Tower at the time of the attack.

Vision takes them all the way to the back of the hall, near the partitioned exam rooms and the OR. Ruth and Sam are there already, both anxiously scanning the room as a young woman shines a penlight in Sam’s eyes.

Sam is the only member of the team Ruth had known before today, besides Steve and Bucky. He had tagged along for a brief visit when he and Bucky had taken a mission on the eastern border of Chile. They hadn’t seen each other or spoken since, but they each seem glad to have the other to lean on now. Ruth springs to her feet when she sees Bucky and Vision approaching.

“I thought you were right behind us,” she frets. “Sam talked to one of the doctors — they’re looking for someone for you, an OB/GYN or—”

“Or I could do it,” Sam interjects.

“Your wrists are sprained and you’ve got a concussion,” says the medic. It sounds like it’s the third time she’s told him that, and she doesn’t care to say it again. She addresses Bucky directly. “We’ll find you somebody.”

“Thank you,” Bucky nods, even though the thought of being touched by a stranger right now is viscerally horrifying. Whatever Loki gave him has worn off completely. He’s glad it kept him together until they reached the Tower, but it certainly wasn’t the magical cure-all he’d been hoping for — or maybe it was, and he’d pushed his body beyond the help of even otherworldly medicine. “Did you see—”

He doesn’t need to say _where they took Steve._ Ruth knows.

“He’s in the second cell from the end,” she explains quickly, pointing to the wall directly behind Bucky. “With, um — They ran out of containment cells, he’s with — I don’t know her real name. Black Widow.”

“Natasha,” Bucky supplies numbly. His eyes stare straight ahead; has resolved not to turn and look at that row of locked doors, but the containment cell behind him is all he can see. All he can _feel_ is urgency. Brooklyn needs to be changed. She needs to sleep. He needs to wash all that dust off of her. Someone needs to check her over, listen to her lungs. That gash on Lincoln’s stomach needs to be cleaned. So does the cut on his head. Steve needs help. He needs a _solution_. He needs to get out of that cell.

And Bucky needs help, too. He’s colder than he should be. He’s beginning to feel lethargic rather than tired. By now, he’s sitting in so much blood that it’s the only thing he can smell. The soreness of labor and the wasp-stings of every stitched tear seem exponentially worse than last night, now that he’s no longer drifting on an endorphin high.

Pain, he can ignore. But this filthy, prolonged misery is almost too much.

“Barnes, Jesus Christ—”

Bucky’s eyes refocus to find Maria Hill approaching at a brisk pace. Her sweat-soaked hair is clinging to her face and her button-down is untucked. A temporary clearance badge for the Tower is clipped to her shirt pocket. She’s disheveled and tired but otherwise unhurt, which has left her with no choice but to take point on triage and somehow marshal the team, too. None of that explains the way she’s looking at him, though — her eyes are wide and panicked.

“Are you kidding me? Oh my God,” she stammers, gesturing stiffly toward Brooklyn.

Now it makes sense. He and Steve haven’t exactly had time to make a sweeping announcement, yet. “Tony didn’t tell you?”

“What? No, we — we had a pretty eventful flight. When—?”

“1 A.M. this morning. Sam delivered her during the quarantine.”

“Fuck, okay,” Hill laughs brokenly. “Her timing blows. Debriefing is at 0600.”

“I don’t even know—”

“Almost midnight. We’ll be in the empty storage room just past the exam room back there. We’re just working damage control until then. I’m doing a quick roll call — I’m putting you down as a medical emergency. Consider yourself excused from class.”

“No — I have to tell—”

“Unless you know where Barton is, _any_ intel you have can wait until you’ve seen a doctor.”

Goddamnit. Clint. Images of Clint’s family bombard Bucky like an airstrike. That fucking idiot had _better_ be alive. But all Bucky can do is shake his head in answer. He hasn’t seen him since this morning.

Maria bites her cheek to keep herself from cursing. “Vision, you look alright — come help us talk the Hulk onto the cargo elevator. He won’t listen to me,” she says sharply. She turns to leave.

“Maria—” Bucky pleads. Reluctantly, she stops. “Where is everybody else?”

Hill takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as if she’s warding off an encroaching headache. “Tony’s in surgery. Three GSWs, but the nanotech took care of the worst of it. Carter’s getting treated for smoke inhalation. We’ve got her cuffed to the bed. Maximoff, Parker, Nat, and Rhodey are quarantined. So is Steve. Potts is still missing.” She looks around the room like she’s trying to determine if there’s any additional piece of bad news she hadn’t delivered until, finally, her gaze settles on Ruth and narrows questioningly. She turns back to Bucky. “She with you?”

Bucky almost smiles. “That’s Ruth.”

Maria gives her a curt nod. “Hey. I trained your dad to run ground control for the Avengers. He never shut up about you.”

“Can I help?” Ruth seems to understand that Hill is in no mood for small talk. She stands up, dusts off her jeans, and squares her shoulders to show that she’s ready and able to work. Maria looks around again, aimlessly this time. There are too many tasks to comprehend, let alone list and delegate, so Ruth gives her a starting point. “I speak thirty-one languages. I’m a good mechanic, I know first aid and CPR. I can — I lifted a concrete wall over my head today. And...knocked out Captain America.” The last item is more of an admission than an offer. She glances apologetically at Bucky.

“With his own shield,” Vision adds airily, carefully avoiding eye contact with all of them.

“You speak Cantonese? Or Xhosa?”

“Yes,” Ruth replies unequivocally. There’s a thrill in her voice that makes Bucky want to smile.

Hill points toward two huddled groups near the entrance. All of them are well-dressed; most are injured. “They were in a meeting when this hit. Their translator’s dead. Go help the medics. When you’re done, pass out bottled water.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, welcome to the team,” Hill sighs wryly. “Vision, with me. Barnes, I’ll send someone to over to get you to an exam room.”

Sam takes the roll of medical tape from the lady working on his wrists, tears off two pieces, and secures the bandages haphazardly. “I think I better help you out with the Hulk.”

“He does seem to like you best,” Vision admits. “Let’s hope he doesn’t try to kill you again.”

“Barnes, will you be okay for a minute if I go?” Sam asks quietly, speaking slower. There’s deep concern in his eyes, but he knows as well as Bucky does that there are more important tasks than sitting here worrying over a problem he can’t solve.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Bucky assures him, conjuring up an expression that he hopes is calm and reassuring.

“Slim, be good. Take care of them.”

Lincoln doesn’t reply. He looks like he might cry again as he watches Sam leave.

 

And just like that, Bucky, Lincoln, and Brooklyn are alone in the loud, chaotic sea of the fallout. Lincoln is holding on tight to the armrest of the wheelchair. Their shoulders are pressed together and Bucky can feel his son shaking. Brooklyn is exhausted and determined to doze off but over and over again she stirs, frowning and whining, crying in her sleep.

Bucky feels utterly displaced. His whole family is in crisis, injured, with no home to return to, dependent on the help of strangers to survive. Even the bunker had been better than this. At least the bunker was familiar. Here, they’re adrift.

“What is quarantined?” Lincoln’s voice is soft and frail amid all the noise.

Bucky reaches out, absently brushing his fingers through his son’s matted blond waves. “You remember when we went to Clint and Laura’s house for Thanksgiving? And Natalie couldn’t come downstairs?”

“I guess. She had chicken pops.”

“Yeah, chickenpox. It’s kind of like that. They’re just making sure Dad’s not contagious.”

“He was — he was scary. I mean, when we were on the jet.”

Bucky’s glad Steve isn’t around to hear that. It would kill him. “I know, baby, but he’s just a little sick. It made him confused. He didn’t mean to scare you, I promise.”

“Dad can’t get sick, though,” Lincoln reasons desperately.

“Oh, buddy,” Bucky sighs roughly, hovering somewhere between the urge to laugh and the impulse to weep. He tugs on the sleeve of Lincoln’s shirt until his son understands what he wants and climbs back into his lap. Bucky doesn’t care how much it hurts — having Lincoln close is worth a little discomfort right now. “Dad used to get sick all the time.”

Lincoln knows only the simplest version of his parents’ lives. They’re both enhanced. Stronger than other people. Immune to illnesses. They heal quickly.

Captain America is just a nickname — when Dad was young, he volunteered to fight in World War II. They gave him a few injections to make him a better fighter.

The same thing happened to Bucky, just a few years later. As far as Lincoln knows, that was the only difference in their circumstances.

And that’s all they’ve told him.

For a long time, Lincoln hadn’t asked about anything beyond what they could answer. When he got in trouble, he asked if they had ever gotten in trouble with their parents. They told him stories. He’d asked about his grandparents. They’d shared what they could about his Grandpa Joseph and Grandpa George, but they’d passed away so long ago that Steve and Bucky barely remembered them. They talked so much about Grandma Sarah and Grandma Winnie that Lincoln was almost tired of hearing them retell their favorite anecdotes. He loved stories about his aunts — Rebecca, Louise, and Caroline. Bucky had a thousand tall tales about their bad behavior that always made Lincoln laugh.

Over the last year, the questions have become more difficult by the day. He had seen Bucky have a flashback. He wanted to know about his prosthetic arm. He’d overheard Tony and Steve discussing something about a court case. Something about Berlin. He asked why his Papa had lived in Wakanda. Why he was so forgetful sometimes, why he had nightmares.

Ruth’s presence is going to mean more unanswerable questions.

So far, they’ve managed to avoid lying to him. They’ve also carefully avoided the truth.

They don’t tell him the frightening parts. They don’t tell him about the war — not really. They talk about their shared poverty and the Depression in the lightest terms they can. No mention of pneumonia or TB or measles. No talk of asthma. Not a word about that bout of scarlet fever that had found Bucky sitting on a wet tile floor beside a bathtub full of ice water while Steve sobbed because he thought the apartment was on fire. Their courtship was easy and sweet. They say nothing about the constant fear of violence and shame and white-walled institutions. Nothing about Hydra, not even the name. They won’t speak about their deaths. He doesn’t know who the Winter Soldier is. Bucky wishes he didn’t have to know, but he does. He deserves to know — or rather, he _will_ inevitably find out, and he deserves to hear it from his parents instead of a news article.

_Dad used to get sick all the time._

It’s a very small piece of the truth, but it casts a long shadow. It pulls other truths along behind it, like the first link of the chain that holds a dropping anchor.

Bucky feels like he’s finally opened up the front door that has never been unlocked. Taken the boards off the windows and thrown wide the shutters and the curtains. He’s spent five years — nearly six — too scared of the world to let Lincoln get more than a fleeting glimpse of it, but he knows Lincoln shouldn't have to view the world through the lens of his father's fear. He has his whole life to live. So does Brooklyn.

Outside that door, there’s wind and rain and bad weather, but there are sweet breezes and sunshine, too. Beyond the safety of those imaginary walls, far out past their white-picket fence, Lincoln will find all the answers he wants. They're out there now, looking for him — inherited monsters who call out with siren voices, coiled leviathans lying in wait for him since the day he was born.

SHIELD and Hydra. The train and the Valkyrie. Lukin. The Red Room. Washington. Pierce, SHIELD, Insight, Karpov, Zemo, Berlin.

Zola, AVOTS, Strazds. The Wolfpack.

The Winter Soldier.

The truth will hurt Lincoln like he’s never been hurt, but a lie would be worse. Silence would be worse. And once Lincoln knows about the world, maybe the world can know about Lincoln. They could take him on walks. Let him ride the train through every borough. See Times Square and wander the Met and the library and Central Park. They could go to a ballgame, or out to the boardwalk, or ride the Wonder Wheel at Luna Park and let him look out over the city.

There’s the breeze. There’s the sunshine.

All the medics are busy tending to bleeding wounds and broken bones. There are a hundred casualties of the attack in this single room and not enough medical equipment to go around, and he knows he can’t be their first priority. It might be a while before someone comes to help them.

Bucky sees no better way to pass the time. He begins haltingly, finding words in bursts like water pumped out of an old well.

“I was eight years old when I met your dad.”

“You...you were a kid?”

“Yeah. We both were. I’d just moved to Brooklyn with my Ma and my little sisters. We’d been living in this little town called Shelbyville, before. In Indiana. Lots of corn, lots of trees, no neighbors. But the bank took our house away.”

“How come?”

“We were poor. My mom borrowed some money and couldn’t pay them back.”

“Oh.”

“Your dad — he was only six. He — he had this really bad cold, his nose was all stuffed up and red. He was missing both his front teeth,” he chuckles. “Couldn’t understand a word he said.” He doesn’t mean to grin — it almost seems like he shouldn’t be allowed to feel happiness right now, in the midst of all this disaster and chaos, especially when Steve might be suffering. His eyes fall shut as he rests his cheek on Lincoln’s hair.

“My birthday is going to be soon and you said we could grill out and go swimming — and I just lost _my_ tooth, plus I’m going to be six, too.”

Bucky hears Steve’s voice in his head just as clearly as he hears Lincoln’s.

_“I mean — he’s right here! He’s this tiny little person, and he’s ours, and,” Steve suddenly cuts himself off with a laugh, “And it’s his birthday. God,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t believe we’re having a Memorial Day baby. That’s fucking hilarious.”_

_“We’re having a May 29th baby,” Bucky reminds him. “His birthday won’t fall on Memorial Day again until he’s six.”_

_Bucky hadn’t expected that to be what did it, but there Steve goes, grinning and crying. Bucky giggles sleepily, reaching out to pat the hand that’s resting on his hip. “What’s the matter with you?”_

_“Aw, nothing,” Steve huffs, still smiling like an idiot. “It’s just crazy to think about. One of these days, you know — we're gonna have a six-year-old.”_

“Yeah.” Bucky’s grin broadens. “You are.”

Lincoln fidgets with the hem of Bucky’s shirt. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask what he wants to know, but he finally musters the courage. “Did you like Dad right away? Like...I mean, you wanted to hang out with him and kiss him and stuff?”

“Oh, boy.” Bucky nods slowly, dreamily. “I sure did.”

“Why?” Lincoln giggles, sounding like himself for the first time since he’d shown up at their apartment door that day, pale and sick and hazy-eyed with terror.

“He could draw. I thought that was really cool. And he was brave.”

Lincoln settles deeper into Bucky’s lap, just as unmindful of his bony elbows and sharp chin as ever. “Did he, um — did Dad like you back?” he presses eagerly.

“Nope.” Bucky opens his eyes and shifts, wincing as the pain is his abdomen flairs. Brooklyn fusses quietly on his shoulder. “He thought I was an asshole.”

“Were you?”

Bucky gives the question some serious thought, then sighs in resignation. “Maybe.”

* * *

 

When Steve regains consciousness, his ears are still ringing. Everything hurts. Can’t breathe through his nose — might be broken.

Bucky was bleeding.

Bucky had panicked — could have been PTSD, could have been something much worse. He wouldn’t let Brooklyn go. Steve feels the sensation of falling return along with a final memory.

The Quinjet. Plummeting.

He can’t remember if it crashed or not. He doesn’t know what happened, or where he is.

He opens his eyes. He’s in a cell.

He rises, or tries. His heart either stops beating entirely or beats too fast, and a wave of dizziness pulls the floor up to meet him. He crawls forward, wondering if he’s clinging to the wall or the ceiling as the room pitches and heaves around him. The blue light flooding the cell is so bright it makes noise in his head. He tries to make his eyes focus. To find a door. A window. Something to break. An escape route.

Wherever Bucky is now, he’s dead.

Steve had seen the blood. He _knows_ he’s dead. It was the only possible outcome. But he forces himself to hope that Brooklyn and Lincoln might be alive, somewhere outside of _here._  He has to get out. He has to find them. He drags himself up, makes it to his hands and knees—

And can’t go any farther. The ground feels cold. His palms are stuck to it, frozen.

The cold creeps up to his wrists like an infection — elbows, shoulders, back, belly, legs, throat. His limbs will crack and break if he moves. The ice presses inward, through his muscles and into every vein, down to his bones and organs. He can’t breathe. His lungs flood with water and freeze inside his chest. The blue lights glare brighter and brighter until they become color bursts against a field of white, and then they go dark.

_Steve—_

The voice sounds like it’s coming from above the water. He calls out for help over and over again, but he can’t make the word manifest aloud. He can’t speak.

When he becomes aware of his surroundings again, he’s on his back against the wall.

No — he’s lying on the floor.

Someone — a black silhouette against the blinding lights overhead — shakes his shoulders violently.

“Get up. Goddamnit, get up!”

She shakes him hard enough that his head strikes the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. He barely feels the impact, but it makes sound explode in his ears. He can see a little better.

It’s Nat. He catches a glimpse of her face as she leans back and struggles to her feet, stumbling weakly. She grabs his hands and, groaning and shouting with desperate frustration, she drags him over to the wall and sets him upright.

He can see her clearly now — her hair is tangled and her swollen knuckles are caked with drying blood that looks black under the lights of their cell. She’s been crying.

She takes a hold of his face in both her hands and studies him, wide-eyed, searching his features for _something._  Her fingers claw frantically over his cheeks to his temples, then to his ears. She flinches like she’s been burned — she’s found what she was looking for. She jerks his head to the side and pins it to the wall. Her nail scratches at the shell of his ear.

His comm. She scrambles backward once she’s removed it, throws it down and then gropes to find it again. She balls her bloodied hand into a fist and beats the earpiece into the floor, striking it over and over again until its plastic housing cracks and the circuitry inside it tears apart. Even once it’s completely destroyed, she doesn’t stop.

Finally, Natasha is crying too hard to continue the barrage. She collapses in pieces beside the broken comm. When she can move again, she covers her ears.

Acting on nothing but instinct, Steve pitches forward. He needs to help her. He grasps her wrists and calls out to her, just to let her know he’s still here. She’s not alone.

“I can hear it,” Natasha stammers. “I can still hear it, I can  _still hear it._ ”

“Nat—”

“I have to — we keep dancing. He’s still playing. Still playing the song.” Her fingers move aimlessly, stretching, pressing against invisible keys. She fights hard against his grip on her wrists, moving her hands through the air as her fingers continue to search and reach.

Steve feels a real chill — not the hallucination of ice, but something deeper. At last, the tangible fears outweigh those he’d imagined and he finds his voice. “Nat — what do you hear? Who—”

“Faustus,” she whispers. Her voice is small. Tearful. She curls into him, hiding her face in the crook of his arm. She cries so painfully that her whole body shakes with the force of it, voice rising to a shout and then falling back into hysterical gasps.

“ _Faustus._ You have to tell them, _please._ Tell them. Tell them it’s Faustus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one mystery unraveled...and for fans of the comics, probably two! (Sorry that Steve hallucinated half a conversation in the last chapter, and Bucky bleeding to death, and the jet crashing. He has some unaddressed issues.) 
> 
> Of course, this is only a teaser to the major reveals that their post-apocalyptic debriefing will bring. 
> 
> I'll be taking a short break after this chapter to work on all the Summer programming and outreach at the library...but the story is halfway done! :D I love you guys immensely!

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like we're all on the first big hill of a roller coaster!
> 
> Guys, thank you for all the support you gave Something Good Can Work, The Simple Life, and all the one-shots in this series. I hope you enjoy all the forthcoming angst, mystery, and action. I'm putting a little more work that usual into this particular story's plot, because I felt like it was time once again for it to thicken - things can't stay the same forever, after all!
> 
> I will, of course, continue to work my way (however slowly) through the one-shots that have already been requested, I'll continue to accept new requests for short stories. You can still follow me for extras and fun at howler32557038.tumblr.com, but I'd like to humbly request that all prompts and questions come to me through AO3, since asks are REALLY hard for me to keep track of for more than a week!
> 
> Thank you! Love and hugs and kisses!  
> Zack J


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